Not Over Yet
by Naralynnia
Summary: Two torn ex-lovers grow to rekindle old flames once their paths re-cross, after nearly six years of learning how to live without each other. Modern AU. Eremika. (With a side of Jeankasa)
1. We're Not Just Dreaming Anymore

_The following story is rated M for language, character death, sensitive topics and sexual content._

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><p><strong>.: Not Over Yet :.<strong>

.: _We're Not Just Dreaming Anymore _:.

.: an EreMika story :.

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><p>The light of the candle flickers for a long, long time.<p>

It's cold outside.

The wind whooshes, swooshes; howling reminders and seething little whispers of what once was...

Of what now should be.

Eren looks down. There's nothing in his hand, just a faded scar, yet he holds his palm up to his face. Remembering. Forgetting. Trying_ so_ hard to forget.

But it's useless.

She's gone now. She's gone.

The light goes out, wet fingers pinching the thin candle wick. He extinguishes the flame.

Just like that.

That's exactly how she left him.

* * *

><p>Her scarf flutters in the wind. Mikasa fixes it tighter around her neck.<p>

The wind is cold outside. Too cold.

She glances down the street, gloved hand waving up to hail a taxi cab.

"_Taxi!_"

But she's not the only one calling out for one. A taxi stops just a few feet away from her and she nearly runs for it, but a blonde man with steely eyes is already claiming it, pulling open the door and shooting her a brief look of indifference before making his way inside.

"Asshole," she murmurs under her breath.

God, the wind is so cold. _Too fucking cold!_

"Taxi!" she calls again, shivering. Her teeth begin to clatter. She curses some more.

A few despairing moments later, Mikasa is finally making her way inside a taxi cab.

"Where to, Miss?" the driver asks her, turning his head to look at her over his shoulder.

_As far away from here as possible_, she's suddenly tempted to say. Although it hits her—_Why?_ Why would she want to say that?

She shakes her head.

Pronounces the address.

The taxi driver nods his head, and soon enough, his foot is pushing down on the gas pedal, his hands turn the steering wheel, and Mikasa is that much farther away from home.

She stares out to the dusky world outside, hazy city lights sliding past her eyes, illuminating her face through the glass of the window.

Her hand finds her scarf, fingers absently pinching the fabric, feeling it, caressing it.

Remembering.

It's so tempting... To delve deeper into her thoughts until they utterly consume her. To allow her mind to wander and to feel. For once—just once. To _feel something_.

But Mikasa is strong. Much, much stronger than that.

There's no time for daydreams. That time has long since passed. She's not a child anymore. She's a woman now. A full-grown woman.

The shimmering engagement ring claiming her left hand and the hard, wet kiss her fiancé plants on her cheek once he greets her is enough to remind her of that.

* * *

><p>Eren swears he's seen her. Out his window, down the street, just right around the corner. Her black hair pulled back into a ponytail, her long legs gliding gracefully as she walks.<p>

But he's wrong. He always is.

Nobody walks like her. Nobody has hair like hers. She's unique. **Unique**. And his eyes haven't caught the real sight of her in years.

...In five.

In five whole years, actually.

All that time has passed since he last saw her, held her, ran his fingers through her hair. Kissed her, hugged her, heard her sigh his name. Heard her gasp it. His name. His. And with the gradual ascend and descend of their chests—and the soft releases of her breath—he belonged to her as much as his own name belonged to him. He was hers entirely.

But not anymore.

Five whole years, huh. Perhaps even a little more. Perhaps even six.

That's funny. Why does it feel like it all happened only yesterday? Pain seems permanent like that. It claims you, appropriates you from your own rationalizations and logical thoughts. That much is obvious.

Because that much is what happened to him.

He's twenty-five now. _Twenty-five_. It sure as hell doesn't feel like it. It feels like only yesterday he was just twenty, holding her in his arms, whispering sweet nothings into the curvature of her ear. But even in his best dreams and reveries, time is undeniable.

Five years are undeniable. Five years mark the time after she left, and five years are enough to change a man entirely.

Eren isn't a child anymore. The stubble in his cheeks and his unkempt, long hair are enough to remind him of that.

He's an adult now. A full-grown adult.

A failure. A big, fucking failure.

He sighs, glances out the window again. The wind is so strong it practically rattles the windows, but his bones ache from the cold and his muscles scream with the desire to move. He has to do something. He has to move.

It's not that Eren feels alive, but he just keeps on living.

So, soon enough, a coat has laded his shoulders, apartment keys and leather wallet have been shoved into the back pocket of his jeans, and the door is slamming shut behind him in his egress.

* * *

><p>Mikasa's tired. Even though she slept eight full hours last night (for once).<p>

Or maybe it was just the party—because _God_, talk about dull.

Her fiancé is rambling on beside her, talking about some kind of sport she doesn't particularly care about with an arm looped around her waist as if she were a shiny, life-sized trophy.

And he shows her off. He loves to show off his trophies.

Mikasa nods and smiles, offering polite little gestures of attention and appreciation to the guests, even though her mind has long become numb to the bureaucratic routine. Talk, talk, talk. Impress, impress, impress. Money, money, money. That's all these people talk about. Ever.

Her eyes land on the view outside a tall, fancy window. Tree branches bend and dance, swaying along to the sibilant whispers of the winter's wind. She shudders, and she longs. Even though it's cold and windy, how nice wouldn't it be to be outside? She feels like she belongs there. More than she belongs in _here_, anyway. That's for sure.

She fixes a little lock of hair behind her ear, a tiny tendril that has escaped her fancy updo. Her fiancé notices her being distracted, eyes still glued to the bending trees, so he plants another one of those wet kisses on her cheek to capture her attention.

She jumps, slightly flustered.

"What's wrong?" he asks her, a big grin etched onto his face.

"Nothing," she says, managing a tiny smile.

He glances at her sideways. "You sure?"

"Yes."

"Are you thirsty?"

"No."

"Can I get you anything?"

Mikasa sighs. He's always aiming to please her. (Not just her, but also the attentive eyes that watch them at the moment).

"Jean," she says his name heavily, gently untangling his grip from around her waist. "I'll be right back, okay? I have to go to the ladies room."

He gives her a big smile, says alright, and Mikasa is making her way through the mingling crowds of foreign people before he–or anyone else surrounding them–can say anything more to her.

She reaches promptly for her jacket, fixes her scarf around her neck, then loops her tiny purse over her shoulder.

Mikasa escapes through the back door. She quickly glances behind her. She doesn't think anybody saw her leave.

They probably didn't, she tells herself then. It's not like any of them really care about her. And it's not like any of them can even pronounce her name correctly, anyway. Or even remember it, at that.

"_Wait, what's your name? Mik... Mi what?"_

"_Mikasa."_

They always laughed. Like her name was some kind of funny joke or something.

"_Wait, how do you pronounce that again?"_

"_Mee-kah-sah. Mikasa."_

"_Oh, my God!"_ they'd laugh again. _"That's so wonderful!"_

Jesus. Everything was wonderful. Like the fact that she was half Japanese. And the fact she was named after a battle ship. And the fact that everybody swore she was pregnant for agreeing to marry Jean so soon.

She wouldn't ever admit this to herself, but their comments sometimes hurt her.

Sometimes.

As soon as she's outside, she notices one of the guests leaning against a wall, sporting fancy trousers and a silk shirt under a black coat. She gives him a faint smile. He takes a long pull from his cigarette.

"You alright?" he asks her, blowing smoke out of his nose.

Mikasa nods her head politely, assuring him she's fine.

Fuck. Did she really look like there was something _that_ wrong with her tonight?

"Congratulations," he tells her then, and Mikasa thanks him nobly, forcing another smile (God, it hurts to have manners sometimes).

Yes. Yes, congratulations. She's going to be a wife soon. This was her engagement party. How exciting is that? How lucky is she?

But as she's making her way down the street, scarf fluttering gently in the wind, feet slowly treading one step after the other, Mikasa isn't feeling very lucky at all.

* * *

><p>Jesus fuck, it was freezing.<p>

But at least the wind had died down. Just a bit. A tiny, tad bit.

Eren's shoulders raise against the chilly air, but he keeps on walking, not even bothering to take any shelter from the cold. He just has to walk. Something inside him reverberates _walk, walk, walk. Just walk, __Eren. Walk._

So he does.

Eren treads onward aimlessly, stuffing his hands deep within his pockets and exhaling heavily through his nose. His breath turns into thin fog before him. Fuck, it's really cold.

There's music playing outside. Christmas music. His green eyes briefly wander over the street, noticing the absence of snow decorating anything. A snow-less Christmas is approaching. Those are the worst.

Finally, he decides that it's far too cold to walk, so Eren makes his way towards his favorite diner. It's only a few blocks away. His mind wanders now. What would he eat? Pancakes? No, he's not even hungry. Well, fuck, then. What's the point of going to a diner if you're not going to eat? Maybe he would just get coffee. Ew. No. He hates coffee. Tea? Would he get tea? His friend Levi always said how—

"_Ow!_"

"Hey!" Out of nowhere, Eren finds himself falling forward. His hands catch something. A woman. She's falling too.

It all happened in an instant, but Eren's arms were quickly circling around her waist, stopping her from bouncing right off his chest where she'd rammed into him violently. One of his hands suddenly flies free, and he holds himself upright from the nearest thing it can land on (a wall) to stop them _both_ from falling to the ground like a pair of broken puppets.

He's breathing heavily. Panting. They both are. Then he's angry. What the fuck was that?

He pulls the woman back, gazing down to catch a look of her.

_Watch where the hell you're going!_

The words are right there. Right there, boiling on his tongue.

But Eren can't speak. Because suddenly...

Suddenly, he sees her.

**Her**.

She's staring up at him, wide-eyed, her irises deep pools of black ink he knows so well... So fucking well.

His voice falters. Eren can't breathe.

But the girl gasps then, grasping his collar feverishly as she manages a bewildered, "_Eren?_"

* * *

><p>Holy. Shit.<p>

This is a dream. It _has_ to be a dream. It has to be.

But no. No, no, _no it isn't_. Eren smiles, his emerald eyes glowing like pure gold as his face brightens up like a Christmas tree, one sleepy feature at a time.

"Mikasa?" he says, astonished. His hands grip her shoulders even tighter, and Mikasa emits a tiny laugh. "Oh my... holy..."—Eren's voice is tight with excitement—"_Fuck_. Holy... _**Holy**__** shit!**_"

Mikasa laughs again, this time only louder. Eren is completely flabbergasted, slapping a hand onto his forehead like he can't believe what's happening to him. He just won the lottery. Money just rained from the sky. A miracle just happened. A fucking miracle. Eren can hardly believe his own eyes.

Mikasa giggles even more, and Eren slowly lifts her to stand upright on her feet. She's light in his arms, standing poised and still as he always remembered.

However, Mikasa can't bring herself to realize what is happening at all. Something in her mind tells her that this is all just another dream. She's gotten so used to dreams. So used to phantom memories of him—and to the abrupt awakenings that always follow. Sweaty skin, trembling lips, tears streaming from her eyes like they'd just witnessed a catastrophe... that's always how they happened.

She never wanted to wake up when she had those, either. Those perfect dreams of him. So she thinks, _maybe if I just play along, I won't wake up __this time__. Let me play along, and the dream will never end._

But then Eren gradually lets go of her, and Mikasa realizes she's still clinging to his collar.

Wait.

Fuck.

She holds the fabric of his shirt between her fingers. Pinches it. Feels it. Caresses it.

Remembers.

Her features melt. Her eyes grow enormously wide, all the color draining out of her face and she flushes, white as a sheet. She looks as if she'd just seen a ghost.

"E-E..."—her voice cracks—"W-wait. _Eren!?_"

Eren's lips part in equal astonishment. He breathes, managing a strangled laugh and running a hand through his hair, suddenly feeling extremely self-conscious. "Um,"—he glances down at her hands, still holding him in place—"Yes. Yes, it's me. Eren."

"Eren?" she asks again, eyes growing even wider.

"Uh–" his voice falters. He laughs again. "Mikasa," he says slowly, pressing his hands to his chest like that scene in the movie _Tarzan_ where Tarzan is telling Jane his name is _Tarzan. __Taar-zahn._

"It's me! It's me, Mikasa," he laughs some more. "Eren!"

Mikasa's eyes are like giant saucers, her face frozen in frigid shock. Eren feels a small chuckle escape him, and he suddenly realizes that's the most he's laughed in... in... Well fuck, it feels like in forever.

"Oh," she heaves suddenly, holding a hand to her forehead as if she were feeling for a fever. She turns away from him, walks around aimlessly, slowly, and Eren keeps his eyes glued solely onto her.

Looking at her now, he's utterly speechless (that's a first), and Mikasa looks like she doesn't even know what to do with herself. It's as if she's just witnessed a dead person emerging from the grave.

She paces around in circles, and Eren finally notices what she's wearing. It's a dress. Red. Tight around her torso. It falls just above her knees, and her coat is thick and woolen. Heavy-looking and expensive. Her hair is up in a neat little updo, too. She almost doesn't even seem like herself.

His eyes fall on the floor then, drawn by the solid _thck, thck, thck_, sound that follows each of her footsteps. Wait. He can't believe his own eyes. Is she wearing _heels_?

Suddenly, Mikasa whips around to face him, and Eren's neck literally jerks back at the startling presence of her. Every time he sees her is like he's laying eyes on her for the very first time.

"Eren," she says heavily, and his mouth practically waters at the sound of her voice. Jesus Christ. She's saying his name. She's saying it. Her. **Her**. Uttering his name like it's nothing without realizing the scathing damage it causes him every single time.

"What on Earth are you doing here?" she asks him, and he thinks he can see the sheen presence of tears in her eyes. Tears. Is she crying?

He swallows.

"Mikasa," he says, and she stiffens at his pronunciation of her name. It's been so long since she's heard anyone say her name like that, in the only way _he_ knows how. "Well, I live here. I've lived in this city for the past five years, actually. New Years will mark my sixth."

Her voice is nearly a whisper. "Really?"

"Yes," he says, smiling suddenly. "Yeah, this is where I've been. What about you? What are _you_ doing here?"

"I just..." Her eyes, and voice, are distant. Because, still, Mikasa can't believe she's there, alive, talking, _breathing_. "I just moved here three months ago, actually," she manages, and the words that follow flow out of her like a spilled drink before she can stop them: "My fiancé found a good job downtown. He used to live here so..."

Eren's eyes wince. He looks as if he could choke on his own oxygen.

Mikasa immediately regrets herself, biting down on her tongue.

"fiancé?" he echoes, hating the way his voice sounds. So breathless. So... appalled.

"Um." Mikasa looks down at her hands. They're shaking. "Yes," she replies, re-adjusting the strap of her purse on her shoulder. "Yeah, I'm getting married in a few weeks."

Eren opens his mouth. No words come out of him.

He feels his heart sink like a ship, ripping in half before reaching the bottom of the ocean. Like the Titanic. Eren was the Titanic, and Mikasa was the fucking iceberg.

Eventually, he draws out a long breath, uttering a fervent, "That's wonderful!" and not really meaning it at all.

"Thank you," she says, looking down at the ground sheepishly. "Everyone tells me the same thing. They all think it's great that I'm settling down now. I'm very happy."

Eren narrows his eyes at her. Her words sound bland, fabricated. Like if she'd repeated them to herself a bunch of times in front of a mirror, the same way some actors over-practice their scripts and then end up sounding monotonous at the delivery of a line.

He doesn't really believe her.

And part of her suspects that, too.

"Yeah," he says then, scratching a stubbly cheek. His heart is still pounding violently inside his chest, his own pulse throbbing in his ears. "It's wonderful, Mikasa. Really. I'm very happy for you."

No he isn't. He feels as if he's just been punched straight in the gut.

Mikasa smiles shyly, looking even more intently at the ground as if her eyes could drill holes into it.

Suddenly, that's when Eren finally sees it. Her left hand reaches absently to touch the thick fabric wrapped around her neck, and his eyes catch the startling presence of a large diamond on a golden ring decorating her long, thin finger. Jesus. Just looking at the damn thing hurt.

But then...

He notices another thing. And it's his scarf. _**His**_ scarf, draped around _**her**_ neck, brilliant and radiant, like a statement decoration.

Eren smirks.

He can't help feeling, by the way the scarf stands out blissfully from the rest of her clothes, that it actually doesn't go with her outfit. Like it doesn't actually belong there. But it's there, because it's _her_. That scarf is as much a part of her as her own limbs are.

Even now, after all this time.

Eren's smirk broadens into a smile.

The scarf is like a mark, a declaration. His own flag stabbed into foreign soil, erected proudly and claiming victory over the land, branding it as his own.

Hey. A guy can dream, can't he?

"So," Mikasa says quietly. Neither of them had spoken in what felt like a very long time, merely standing there in the cold while the wind gently ruffled his hair and her dress. Eren hadn't noticed the silence. He'd been lost in thought. He'd been lost from time.

"I was just making my way to eat something," she tells him, and part of her doesn't even know why she's telling him that. She may as well confess her entire situation. She may as well blurt out, _Hey, Eren. I know I haven't seen you in over five years and all but you should know that I'm engaged to this wonderful man whose friends are all asses who can't even remember my name. Or pronounce it correctly. Actually, I'm currently fleeing my own engagement party as we speak. My life is quite the mess, huh? Wanna go eat something?_

No. She knows better. She knows better than to linger with him even a second longer. That's dangerous. That's _wrong_. She should say goodbye. She should just walk away and run as far away from him as she can get.

But she can't.

Mikasa can't bring herself to do it. She's glued. Stuck. Like a nail drawn permanently to a magnet.

"So was I," Eren voices suddenly, disrupting any further speech from her. "Do you want to come with me?"–_Oh, God. __Oh, God. __Oh, God_–"I know this great place just a few blocks away."

Mikasa begins to object, wailing alarms going off inside her head and screaming _danger, danger, danger!_ "Um, no. I–"

"Oh, come on," he insists, swaying slightly on his feet. "We haven't seen each other in _so long_! Come on, Mikasa. Please? What's the worse that can happen?"

Mikasa is quiet for a moment. She stares at the ground, glances over her shoulder, searching silently for a figure in the dark.

There's no one there behind her.

She sighs.

Of course there isn't.

"Alright," she says quietly then, utterly convinced that she's still caught within a dream. Utterly convinced that whatever is happening is fake, unreal. Just a figment of her desperate imagination.

But there's nothing fake about the way Eren's green eyes light up, as if they've been engulfed in bright flames. He smiles at her, beaming like the sun.

And Mikasa smiles back.

Then she laughs. Mikasa, she...

She just laughs.

"I think I'd love that," she says. "You could probably show me around while we're at it, too. I'm still new to this place, you see, so I could use all the help I can get."

"Your fiancé hasn't shown you around?"

"No," she huffs, shaking her head. "He's... a busy man."

Eren smiles. "Well, then. I guess it's a good thing I get to do the honors."

Mikasa rolls her eyes at him, and Eren—he was sure he'd done this about thirty times by now—laughs.

And then, in an instant, it's as if a veil has been lifted between them, and suddenly five whole years (nearly six) disintegrate into nothing. It's as if no amount of time has augmented any space between them at all, dividing them into two extreme ends of the world like it surely had once.

Because now they stand in the same place.

Now they are together again.

They're at one with themselves. As if they both lost their identities somehow throughout the course of their lives, and meeting again was the only way of recovering it. Suddenly, they were reminded of who they were. Who they _truly_ were.

They were little kids who'd grown up together. They were friends. They were lovers. They were exes. They were everything and nothing, because nothing was the same.

And yet... Everything _was_ the same.

How funny is that? How utterly impossible?

Mikasa begins to laugh again, because fate is always so demanding. Because, leaving the building and escaping her own engagement party, she never in a million years thought she'd end up_ here_. With _him_. Out of all people.

Eren smiles at her giggles, then runs a hand through his hair. It falls just over his shoulders, wisping out slightly at the ends. He looks reminiscent of Tom Cruise in the movie _The Last Samurai_. Rugged and austere. Troubled. Like his eyes have seen too much.

And yet, under all that heavy burden, Eren's eyes still shimmer and shine like a child's. And when he smiles, his teeth bare all the way. His smile is the same. His eyes are the same. Everything else is different. Everything else is... all grown up, but those two things remain perfect. Untouched.

Mikasa bites her lip.

Something inside of her screams, _wake up, wake up, wakeupwakeupwakeu__p!_

But she isn't dreaming anymore. This time, Eren is there for real. And he is nothing—_absolutely __nothin__g_—like the man she'd seen in her dreams for so long. Because people grow and become different, and the marks of time's passing has embroidered change onto them both.

Mikasa tightens her expensive coat around her, diamond ring shimmering slightly in the light.

Eren feels for his wallet within his pocket. Sighing, he silently thanks the heavens. Thank God. It's still in there.

That's when Mikasa offers him another one of her smiles.

And Eren feels like the luckiest man in the world.

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><p><strong>AN:** So... Hello. I've been fighting with myself not to update my other story 'Rain' because I already did just a few days ago, but my fingers kept itching me to write something. And um, yeah. I didn't go to work today so this happened.

Also, I decided to give this story chapter names instead of just _parts_. It just felt right for this one.

Thank you so much for reading. Please leave a review and let me know what you think so far :)


	2. Your Scent, Your Colors

**A/N:** Oh, no. This chapter is long. Okay, let me explain. I never meant to make it this lengthy, but the words just spilled out of me and I couldn't stop. I actually edited a lot out. Forgive me. But this is basically what happens before we truly start the story so please do enjoy. (If you'd like, listen to the playlist I linked in my page for the story. Maybe it'll be good company as you read along). Anyways, here we go.

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><p><strong>.: Not Over Yet :.<strong>

.:_ Your_ _Scent, Your Colors _:.

.: Chapter II :.

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><p><em>Black.<em>

Short, obsidian hair... Tresses that fall just like straight waterfalls. Eyes so black you swear they can suck you in whole, keep you prisoner within the cells of her abyss forever.

Her hands, her hair, her chest. The little dimples decorating the small of her back...

They were so beautiful. So perfect. So _p__ure_.

But they torment him. For years, that's all they've ever done.

All these things stand as the grim reminders of all Eren has ever lost. The reminders that everything, **_everything_**, was shattered as soon as that door had fallen shut behind her when she left.

_As soon as that rear view mirror had been ignored. _

_As soon as those two cars had collided... and a frail body had been propelled straight out and into the sidewalk. _

_And Eren had been too late. _

_Eren had been to late to save him._

Those were the things. The two simple things: beauty and tragedy. They were the catalysts for what he had become today. A haunting shell of what he once was. An empty carcass.

A nobody.

Eren had died along with _him_.

Eren had perished at the permanent absence of _her_.

But then... as if someone had flipped on a switch, he was, just as suddenly, brought back to life. He was alive again.

He was **alive**.

He found himself holding on to every shaky sigh, every nervous laughter, clinging to every passing second as if it were his very last.

Because now, the girl with the obsidian hair and the abyssal eyes... She'd appeared, manifested, and she walked right by his side.

Right where she belonged.

They were reunited. Together. Just how they were meant to be.

Because once, there had been a promise. A vow: _"Always, Eren. I will always be with you."_

And the girl...

**The girl**. She was all that he could see. Like a fervent beacon, her light was brilliant and intense. Blinding. _Real_.

And he saw her.

He saw her even though his eyes were merely glued onto the ground.

* * *

><p><em>Green.<em>

Eyes so green, the earth grew envious of them. Eyes that crinkled as he laughed. That flared when he was angry. That shimmered blue-green when he cried, as if the ocean decided to claim what the earth was too afraid to touch.

Green. The color of life; of all living things. The trees, the leaves—even the blue sky... they all lived within them. As far as she was concerned, everything that ever lived resided right in there...

Right there, within those two brilliant orbs carved onto his face.

His eyes. She'd loved them. She'd loved _him_.

Times with him were like radiant bursts that marked the timeline of her existence. Wherever Eren had been, wherever he'd touched, had become a place that would glow and burn for as long as there was any air flowing through her lungs, as long as there was any breath left within her. Like a flame that refuses ever to give out.

And that was him. That was Eren.

He was a flare, a fire, a wild frenzy of emotions that palpitated with every breath. He was music. A song. A spectrum of bright colors and loud, discordant sounds that blended into quiet music, a tune that only she could hear.

But then the light had begun to fade once, and the colors no longer bled through. All music had ceased... after that terrible accident, and the bright spectacle of green had slowly fogged into black. Beyond the abyssal tint of blackness, her eyes could no longer catch the sight of anything at all. Only darkness. Only plaguing nightmares and empty dreams.

And Mikasa had forgotten what it was like to be alive then...

Until, suddenly, someone turned on that light.

* * *

><p>The wind is a gentle whisper against their skins, nipping rigidly at any expanse of bare flesh despite its soft caresses. Funny, Eren thinks, how the rowdy winter winds had wracked the city only a few moments ago. But now, as if the degree of intensity had been ratcheted down into a milder setting, the wind is quieter, muted. Stilled.<p>

It takes him a while, but eventually, Eren manages to dig up an ancient courage. He wills his eyes to acknowledge the dazzling presence by his side.

And finds Mikasa already staring.

"Eren," she says, her voice all soft and breathy, and Eren nearly holds his breath. Jesus. Each time she says his name, a part of his heart sinks deeper into his chest.

"Yes?"

"I was thinking..." she utters, then is silent for a moment as she searches for words. She seems hesitant, perhaps even a little insecure. "Um, I actually have to be somewhere soon, so..."

Eren swallows, feeling the bitter sting of disappointment as she continues.

"So maybe we could save the showing me around the city for another day?" Mikasa glances around her, then finishes in a tiny whisper, "Or night."

"Sure," Eren shrugs, feigning indifference. "I was going to say the same thing anyway,"—Lie—"because it's so cold out, and all you're wearing is a dress."

Mikasa looks down at her clothes. "Oh," she sighs, "yeah. It's a long story."

"I bet," Eren says softly, a faint smile forming in his lips. Mikasa can't fight her grin then, beaming at him for a second before tearing her eyes away.

Look at that. She's already smiling like an idiot.

She can feel Eren's eyes drilling holes into her side as she walks beside him, her own eyes fixed intently on the ground, not daring to look up at him.

A small part of her—or perhaps even a big one—feels slightly flattered by his unbidden stares. She can't help but wonder: _What __is__ he thinking?_ That she looks odd? That she's changed? That she's prettier? Uglier? _What?_

What's going on inside that fretful, ardent mind of his?

A few moments pass before Mikasa lifts her head to glance his way.

He's still staring at her.

Damn.

Quickly, she averts her eyes to the side, and then—right then—she swears—_it may have been just a mere figment of her imagination_—but she swears she hears the damn guy laugh at her, although his eyes remain planted on her frame and his body doesn't shake in the slightest.

"You alright?" he asks her quietly, and she nods, praying that the heat rising to her cheeks wouldn't burn through and show.

"Just thinking," she answers faintly, and Eren doesn't say another word...

He just continues to fucking stare.

Mikasa sighs. Well, it's not like she can really blame him. Because she looks (and feels) nothing like her old self. Nothing like the girl that he'd known for so long. She's a stranger to him now, if she really thinks about it. And to a certain extent, Eren is a stranger to her too.

She'd caught the sight of his longer hair, and although she'd seen him grow it out a few times before (he went through an odd phase in High School) it never struck her how much older it made him look. How much more..._ serious?_

But she couldn't relish on the sight of him yet, because her eyes still hadn't found the courage to inspect him, the way his were already doing unforgivably to her. And her hands still shook pathetically with adrenaline from their encounter. And her shoulders still shivered pitifully from the cold.

Seriously, out of all the days and nights, why did they have to meet _today_?

Eren squints his eyes at her, watching the way the tip of her nose turned pink. Her pallid cheeks were blotched in a roseate tint, which reminded him that she'd never had a very high tolerance for the cold.

"Aren't you cold?" he asks her, the wind gently ruffling his hair.

"Yes," she sighs, her breath puffing out as steam before her. "I'm freezing, actually."

"Well, you're in luck," he says suddenly, turning to open a random door by his side, "because we're already here."

"What?" Mikasa's eyes grow wide in confusion. "But—I thought..."

"I changed my mind," he shrugs, still holding the door open for her. "You're cold. We could just eat here instead."

Mikasa glances up at the sign above the entrance. It's a cafe. One she's never heard of before. The sign is written in a language she certainly can't speak, or even attempt to.

She looks back down at Eren.

He beckons for her to go inside.

She raises a brow at him and questions, "Did you just pick this place out on a whim?"

"Yes," he grins, and his green eyes crinkled slightly at the edges. "Well, no. Not exactly. Like I said, I've lived here for some time. I've practically memorized every damn street corner."

Mikasa snorts gently into her fist, shaking her head incredulously at him.

"What?" he asks, smiling, still holding the door open for her to go in. Customers are beginning to eye him suspiciously.

"Nothing," she says, smoothing out her dress. "Nothing. Let's just go inside."

Calmly, she makes her way past him, into the cafe, and that's when Eren suddenly catches her scent. It freezes him into place, like a bucket of cold water plashed straight onto his face.

_That smell_. It's **nothing** like her. It smells expensive, light. Traditional? Not at all the natural scent of currant and raspberries he'd remembered always catching on her skin and—for reasons he might not understand or even fully admit to himself—it makes him feel a slight bout of panic erupt from within his chest.

She's changed. She's changed a lot. **Too much**. It's not right.

_It__'s__ just __not__ right_.

He swallows, telling himself to, _s__nap the fuck out of it._ And to, _k__eep your shit togethe__r, __Eren__. Just for tonight._

Mikasa's already standing by the counter, staring up at the different options of food and beverages on the chalkboard menu that hangs on the wall behind the small barista girl, racking her brain and trying to make out what a _tarte tatin_ and a _tarte au chocolat_ are. If the sign outside made little sense to her just moment before, the menu was honestly only ten times worse.

Eren watches her as she stands, perusing the menu, ignoring the plethora of desserts inside a glassed display right in front of her.

He smirks. Oh, Mikasa. She really was just odd like that. It was pleasantly reassuring for him to know that at least _that_ little habit of hers hadn't changed.

"What's a..."—she peers behind her to speak to him as he makes his way to stand by her side—"tartee.._. tateen?"_

Eren chuckles. "You mean, a _tarte tatin_?"

"Yeah. That's what I meant."

"Um," He looks down at her hands. They're trembling. He glances at her shoulders. Shivering. Mikasa's still cold.

Eren closes his eyes and sighes heavily. If this had been five, maybe six years ago, he would've wrapped his arms around her and rubbed his hands over her arms, offering her his own heat until her body stopped shivering.

"It's a type of upside-down apple tart," he answers. "You won't like it."

"And a_ tarte au_... Ugh. _That_." She points her finger to the French scribble on the menu.

Eren leans in a little closer to her, following the line of her finger. "Ah, a _tarte au chocolat?_"

She nods, slightly shaken by his close proximity.

"Chocolate tart," he says with a smirk, looking at her sideways and leaning back. "Like a chocolate pie. **Dark** chocolate."

At that, Mikasa's mouth falls open, her eyes growing enormously wide.

Eren smiles. "Oh, you'd _love_ that."

"Yes," she muses, her eyes glowing like a child's. "Yes, that's what I want."

"Alright." Eren digs his hand into his pocket to pull out his wallet. "If you want, you could go find us a place to sit."

"What?"

"A place to sit, Mikasa. Go find one."

"Why?"

He stares at her. "What do you mean why?"

"Uh–" She nearly slaps herself over the head. _Stupid, stupid, stupid. _"I just," she shakes her head, mumbles, "never mind."

"I mean, unless you wanna try your luck ordering in French?" Eren flashes her another smirk, the curvature of his lips complementing the arch of his quizzical brow as he mocks, "From what I just heard, it sounds like you could use all the practice you can get."

"Oh, shut up," she retorts, punching him lightly on the shoulder, causing Eren to flinch away and snicker. "I'll go find us seats, then. So you can take your sweet time ordering in _French_."

As soon as she turns to walk, she's struck with how packed the place actually is. Damn. Where the hell had her mind been before that she hadn't noticed all those people sitting there?

As Mikasa walks away, Eren rubs his shoulder imperceptibly. Fuck, that girl is still strong. But he smiles stupidly to himself. He can't help it. The corners of his lips stretch in silent bliss, and Eren doesn't dare fight the warm feeling that washes over him. He feels flattered. Perhaps even a bit lucky, too.

**That's the first time she touches him**. Well, intentionally, of course. He doesn't think her slamming into him earlier really counted as intentional.

He closes his eyes and relishes at the contact, engraving it into his mind, as if keeping mental notes of their time together would make the situation that much more of a reality somehow...

_The first time __in nearly six years that Mikasa__ touche__s__ me: A punch in the arm after I practically insulted her __intelligence_.

_Nice._

* * *

><p>Something citrus with a hint of ginger and nutmeg. And then the natural scent of his woody musk...<p>

Lord. His smell still lingers in her nostrils, slapping her hard across the face and leaving her stupid. Like in those odd TV shows where a person gets slammed across the head with a pie for answering a question wrong.

She breathes out a shaky, weary sigh.

Eren smells exactly the same as before. _Exactly the same!_ How is that even possible? After all this time?

He still smells of youth, of nature, of the wind outside. Natural. Organic. Of Old Spice deodorant and just... _boy_. Nothing like the scent of men's poignant cologne her nose has been violated into numbly accepting by now.

Mikasa inhales deeply through her nose, and even the wafting aroma of coffee and pastries permeating the cafe fail to ward off that persistent smell of his from her senses. It drives her mad, rendering her nerves alert and acute, and she thinks she can feel a tiny shiver slither its way up her spine, like a tiny, traitorous snake.

Mikasa feels... _s__ensitive_.

Maybe being near him just did that to her. His presence caused something to spur inside of her, something she couldn't really fathom, but perhaps it was just a bit too early into the night for her to understand. So, with another sigh, Mikasa resumes her hunt for a free table, thinking to herself that it was stupid to feel anything from merely his presence and his smell. He probably hadn't even noticed _hers_.

She brings her fingers to rub her temples, looking for a place to sit and telling herself to _j__ust __calm down, Mikasa. __K__eep your cool__. __Just for tonight._

After a few seconds, she finds a table by a window. It's small. Tall. Two tall chairs are tucked neatly underneath it. She decides to claim it, but then thinks about her heels, and her dress. Maybe sitting there isn't such a good idea, and the fact that she would be right by the window meant people could see her if they walked by.

And...

_And that meant Jean would be able to see her if he was looking for her._

She turns around, picks out the most isolated free table and decides that that's the one. She sheds the coat and purse from her shoulders, placing them over the back of one of the chairs and sitting down, but not before feeling utterly uncomfortable at the way seemingly every pair of eyes turns to land on her.

People whisper quietly among themselves as they gape at her. They're probably wondering what the fuck is wrong with her, wearing a dress in the middle of the winter.

_I'm fleeing my own engagement party,_ she wanted to muse out to all of them, let them in of the funny joke that was her life. But she didn't say anything. Just let out a tiny huff of exasperation before sitting down.

She doesn't like the view from where she sits though, facing the wall, and she can still feel people's stares chipping away at her back, so Mikasa stands up and switches to the booth across from her, leaving the chair for Eren to take without bothering to retrieve any of her things.

She crosses her legs, balancing a pump from the tips of her toes and bouncing her foot back and forth. From this angle, she can glare at anyone who gawks at her. And also...

And also, she can see Eren. She can see him perfectly and well.

He speaks quietly to the barista girl, and Mikasa can't hear a thing he says. Sitting in the cafe, only a stone throw away from one another, she suddenly feels like they were once again worlds apart. As if, if they aren't physically together, standing right next to each other, touching, then they aren't even in the same room at all.

The barista giggles and smiles coyly at his comments, and Mikasa can't help but smile too. That boy. He's probably flirting in French to her. In broken French, but he still remembered some from High School.

She watches as the girl brushes a lock of hair behind her ear, batting her eyelashes at him like some sort of frantic, blind bat.

_Ew_. Mikasa scowls. Seriously? Did the girl seriously think she was being cute with that?

Eren says something else, and the girl starts bursting into giggles all over again, flipping her hair and curving her lips into a minx-like, clammy smile that has Mikasa practically choking back a gag.

But then she sees Eren fishing through his wallet.

And she gasps.

Wait. Shit. What an asshole she's being. She can't let him pay for her! That's so rude!

Mikasa scrambles to rise on her feet. At that same instant, she sees an elderly man peering at her over the thick rim of his glasses, a judgmental look etched onto his face. She is once again reminded of what she's wearing.

She melts back down into her seat, cursing herself and everyone else in the entire room save for Eren. Why are they all still staring at her? Have they never seen a fucking woman in heels and a dress before?

After a few moments, Eren comes up to the table, holding two steaming cups in one hand and a small plate of what looked like a slice of chocolate heaven in the other.

Immediately, Mikasa's mouth begins to water at the forbidden sight. _**Chocolate**_.

She eyes the thin slice of chocolate tart that is so dark, it's practically obsidian. She watches the way Eren's hand holds the plate, carefully, as if it were the most delicate thing in the entire world.

And then, before she can even stop herself, she finds herself marveling at the way his long fingers clench under the plate, and how they hold the two cups in his other hand.

The way the veins protrude over the back of his hands under a blanket of tanned skin, like gentle, little tree roots.

Those hands...

His hands...

Wait. What? No. _**No**__._

Ha_._ Talk about an embarrassing thought, that one.

"Are you alright?" Eren asks her, setting down the drinks and plate on the table.

"Yeah, why?"

"You're blushing."

Mikasa almost fell out of her seat.

"What?" She nearly chokes on her own scoff, a wave of heat washing down her torso. "_N-__n__o_. No, I'm not. I'm just... I'm just cold, that's all."

"Oh," Eren nods his head slowly, seeming almost unconvinced, but he says nothing more on the matter, only hands her a fork before pushing the plate to her end of the table.

"So," he says, taking the seat across from her, not bothering to remove her things, "it's good to know you still like chocolate. At least that much hasn't changed."

She nods, starting to uncoil the scarf around her neck.

Eren watches the way that damned diamond ring shimmers as she brings her hands to clutch the fabric. It's such a damn contradiction, that something so brash can come that close to something so delicate and precious as his own gift to her. His own scarf.

Eren knows he should tear his eyes away from her then.

But he doesn't.

He's practically holding his breath, eyeing the newly exposed skin of her neck like a blind man regaining vision. Without the scarf, he can really see what she's wearing now. The dress is short-sleeved and a deep red color that bounces off the paleness of her skin like a traffic light in the night. He notices that a thin layer of lacy designs decorate over the fabric, like an afterthought by the designers to make the rather simple dress a bit more elegant.

His eyes scurry further down.

It's not _too_ low-cut, but the dress fits a bit too tight around her bosom, which pushes her breasts back against her chest and huddles them together, causing a thin slit to poke out from a place the dress can't reach to cover.

Eren's pupils shrink. He feels a solid pang. **Pain**. It slams into his chest with the rapid force of a fire truck.

Her chest... _That chest_.

That same chest that cages in her fervent heartbeat, the one he felt so well the night she left.

_When he'd laid himself on top of her, dog-tired, and her heart had slammed against his ear, like a drum. _

_And she was alive. And he was alive. _

_Because he was hers, and she was his, and her skin was only his to claim when he'd fogged it with his breath, and his lips had collected tiny beads of her sweat as they grazed the surface. And he'd kissed it. And she'd moaned. _

_His name. _

_His. _

_She'd gasped it. Again and again like some sort of desperate litany while he moved in her, and she clawed at his skin, as if she could absorb him into her own. And Eren had felt her tremble underneath him as his mouth marked her neck, and his hands filled with her breasts, and she'd poured his name out her lips like it took all the strength within her, even though neither of them had had any left._

And that was it. The last thing he'd ever heard her say to him. His sorry, broken name.

Mikasa isn't really looking at him, rather occupied with folding the scarf neatly and placing it beside her lap, but Eren clenches his jaw and rips his eyes away from her, staring at some insignificant point in space and feeling his entire abdomen flush like shit down a toilet.

Damn it. Damn it, damn it, _damn it all._

**She's not his anymore**. She's not. The obsidian hair, the abyssal eyes, the little dimples on her back and her hands and chest and just... _her_. They all belong to someone else now. They're for someone else to claim, to kiss. To mark with his own lips. Why can't his rotten brain just fucking understand that? Why does he have to rattle himself into pain _already_?

He doesn't know who her fiancé was, but already, Eren decides that he loathes him.

Slowly, Miksasa peers up to see him, and is a little stricken by what she finds.

He isn't looking at her. He seems mad. His brows furrow in displeasure and the corner or his jaw does that little thing it always does when he clenches it tight.

She feels her face burn even more, convinced somehow that it was because of something she'd done to him. Had he been offended by her blushing somehow? Did it make him mad that she'd let him pay? What's wrong with him?

However, Mikasa begins to eat her food nonchalantly. It isn't in her place to ask him anything about it. It's not like they're even friends, anyway... Just two lonesome idiots who'd bumped into each other in the middle of the night.

She chews decadently on a piece of the dessert, her taste buds practically screaming at the chocolaty explosion of _tart__ie au chocco_—Ah, whatever. Chocolate pie.

"Do you like it?" Eren asks her softly, and Mikasa nearly jumps, not expecting the sound of his voice to disrupt the silence so suddenly.

Eren sees her shrug rather apathetically though, her eyes trained coolly on the table and face fixed into a blank slate, scrubbed clean of all emotion.

He frowns. She isn't looking at him. Why not? Does she not like it? Does she... _Does she not like chocolate anymore?_

"Mikasa," he says.

Her eyes slowly rise to meet his.

His voice comes out all sullen. Strained. "You **do** still like chocolate, right?" he asks her, his emerald gaze boring into hers, waiting, brows furrowing deeper into his frown. He seemed genuinely troubled for some reason.

Calmly, Mikasa blinks her eyes at him. She swallows her food. Sighs.

"No," she responds grimly. "No, Eren. I'm afraid,"—she tears her gaze away from his, staring solemnly at a blank point in space above his head—"that I've actually developed a great distaste for it. In fact, I'm allergic to it. The fact you're feeding me chocolate means I might end up dead by the end of the night."

Eren gapes at her, blank, his features slowly hardening one by one.

Mikasa's face is as plain and humorless as a piece of stale bread.

He opens his mouth to speak, to say something, anything, but he's not even sure what to say to her.

That's when he sees her pinch her bottom lip between her teeth, her face slowly turning into a strained display of suppression until suddenly...

Mikasa breaks into a bout laughter.

"Just kidding," she says through her giggles. "Why would I ask for a chocolate pie if I didn't like chocolate? Really, Eren?"

He sighs. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"What?"

"That's not funny."

She shrugs, wiping the corner of her mouth with the edge of her wrist and smiling. "I think it is."

"Well, it's not."

"It is for me."

Eren shakes his head. "God, you're still a weirdo."

She holds up her fork, licking the leftover chocolate residue from the back lewdly before dipping it into her mouth.

He grimaces.

She laughs again.

"I get it," Eren tries to fight the smile that threatens to seize his lips, but the sound of her laughter and the way her bare shoulders shake with every giggle are making it hard for him to succeed, "you still like chocolate. No need to be so gross."

"Sorry," she says, suddenly bashful. "But maybe you shouldn't ask such stupid questions, Eren."

"Or perhaps you should invest on a better sense of humor."

She kicks his leg subtly from underneath the table.

"Ow!" he laughs. "What the hell?"

"That's the second time you pick on me tonight. And it's hardly been twenty minutes since we ran into each other."

Eren's leg throbs where she kicked him. Jesus-fuck. And to think she'd done it with her bare foot.

"I can't help it," he says, finally bringing his drink to his lips. "I'm too used to teasing you."

"Well, then stop," she retorts, slicing the edge of the fork into her dessert. "Unless you want to end up without any limbs by the end of the night. You know,"—she waves the fork around in the air between them as if it were a sword—"my specialty is slicing up flesh."

"Oh?" Eren's lips curve into a smile against the rim of the cup. "Is that so? You've always been all talk and no show, Ackerman."

"Watch it, Jaeger," she says menacingly.

Eren can't stop the chuckle that rumbles past his throat. "Sorry, sorry. I'll stop."

"Good."

He takes a sip of his drink. Swallows. Whispers, "maybe".

Mikasa gives him another look.

He smiles again, then dips his head back slightly and swigs another long sip of his drink.

Her eyes only linger on his features then, lost in gentle reverie.

That smile... It had been one of those rare ones where the tiny (very, super tiny—practically microscopic) dimple by the corner of his mouth flashed. She saw it even from underneath his stubble.

It only happened when he _really_ smiled, and she'd first noticed he had it when they were just little kids.

_And it__ was still there._

Well, of course it was. Because just like his smell, and his hair, and his eyes, and every other part of him, it was as much a part of Eren as his own flesh was. Not even time can erase the features of a person, and Mikasa practically has to remind herself of that obvious fact.

The dimple had nearly taken her breath away too, as corny as it sounds. She'd caught it the same way people catch the sights of shooting stars_._ Breathless. Excited._ Awed._

She closes her eyes and sighs, shoving another dark piece of chocolate pie into her mouth.

"What's wrong?" Eren asks her, and Mikasa's eyes snap open, not expecting the question.

"What?" She shrugs, chewing on her food, "Nothing's wrong, Eren."

"You look stiff."

"I'm just a bit uncomfortable."

"Why?"

She swallows her food, then points the fork to a man blatantly gawking at her from two tables away. "That's why. Everyone keeps looking at me."

Eren smiles. "Well, because you look beautiful."

"No," she sighs, and Eren swears he sees her cheeks turn a bit pink, but her voice is toneless as she continues, "it's because I look like an idiot."

"That's not true."

"It is."

"Why do you say that?"

She leans in closer and whispers, as if she were telling him a secret, "I'm wearing a dress in the middle of winter."

"But there's a reason for that, yes?"

"Yes."

"Then let them stare as much as they want," Eren dismisses, taking another swig of his drink.

Mikasa eyes him carefully, realizing how different his reaction is from her fiancé's. If Mikasa were ever to tell Jean that there were people staring at her, he would've glared and scowled at them, hovering over her protectively like a lion harboring his food.

Eren only shrugged though, sipping his drink and stealing little peeks of her from the corner of his eyes.

For a second, Mikasa thought he would ask her about the reason she even _was_ wearing a dress.

But he never did.

In fact, now that Mikasa thought about it, he'd never even acknowledged the existence of her fiancé at all, or commented about the ring on her finger, which sort of surprised her. Eren was always the overly curious type that never knew how to suppress his questions, but he was ignoring these things... as if mentioning them would steal them away from the scene or something.

Mikasa stares down at his hands gripping the cup, eyeing the veins on the back of his hands once again.

_Maybe_... Maybe it really would steal her away from that place. Because her fiancé is probably looking for her by now. Oh, God. _What if the whole party is __looking for her__? _

She'd left her phone with Jean, even though she'd brought her purse. He_ had_ to be looking for her. She'd been gone for some time. They all have to be wondering where...

Eren swallows his drink down bitterly, grimacing before coughing into his fist.

"You shouldn't drink so fast," she tells him calmly, despite the mild torrent of panic reeling in her gut. "You'll burn your throat."

Eren rolls his eyes at her. "Please," he says, but doesn't offer anything else.

Classic Eren. You can't give that boy a single piece of advice without him rolling his eyes dismissively and swatting your sentiments away.

Mikasa realizes she still hasn't touched her drink, so she brings the still-steaming cup to her lips and blows on it for a few seconds before taking a small sip, tasting it.

The drink is warm. Vanilla-y. French. The taste is smooth and gentle on her tongue, like a whisper.

She gazes at Eren, her eyes peeking up over the rim of the cup to see him.

He's staring at her again. But not just staring at her—he seems lost in thought.

Something in her stomach tightens at the way his eyes bore into her, so mercilessly, and she swallows her drink down carefully, trying not to choke.

She can feel her face and neck starting to heat up again, but Eren doesn't even flinch his eyes away from her—not even for a single beat—so Mikasa lets out a slightly breathless sigh, trying not to stutter as she manages, "What is it?"

"Nothing," Eren answers flatly, not even blinking his eyes.

"Then," she speaks under her breath, as if speaking too loud would make him break his eyes away from her, "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Eren's eyebrows raise gradually, but his features remain carved from solid stone. Eventually though, he smiles, running a hand through his bister hair and sighing.

"It's just,"—he shakes his head—"It's just that you've changed_ so_ much. But then again, you haven't. I'm just trying to make sense of you, Mikasa, but it's as if someone took this girl I knew so well and wrapped her up in different clothing and painted her face with makeup and now suddenly she took on a whole different role. I can't even recognize you, but at the same time, I do. I totally do.

"I just..." Eren sighs again, and Mikasa's hands tighten around her cup.

She clenches her jaw and stiffens, but can'twill herself to stop him from belaboring further on. Part of her _wants _him to continue. Part of her wants him to say all the things she's not brave enough to voice herself.

"I guess I just can't believe I found you tonight," he finishes, eyes soft and hazy as he looks away. "That's all."

His long lashes flutter a few times as he blinks off into space. His eyes—for once—can not bring themselves to look at her directly.

So Mikasa slowly drops her gaze onto her own hands, staring at the cream-colored liquid inside the cup within her grasp. Her ring shimmers slightly in the light.

She closes her eyes, deciding not to look at it.

He said "_found you_". **Found**, as if he'd been lost, looking for her, and now everything was suddenly okay. Everything is better, because now she's once again within his grasp.

Her brain tries not to accept the candid, wispy little thought that shouts and screams, _and you feel the same way about him too, dummy! Tell him that. Tell him._

_TELL HIM!_

"I know," she whispers, her eyes still shut. "It's been... such a long time."

"It has," he agrees quietly, and the air grows denser between them, but not uncomfortable. "But I guess it's not our fault we've changed, right?"

He finally forces his eyes to meet her, and Mikasa smiles softly after opening her own.

"Yeah," she says, but the drink is quickly stealing her lips after that, and that's the end of that conversation. Mikasa offers nothing more.

She never takes another bite out of that chocolate tart.

And Eren doesn't insist on teaching her the right way to pronounce it.

* * *

><p>It's colder outside now than from before they'd gone into the cafe.<p>

Eren hears Mikasa curse under her breath.

"Whoa, there, potty-mouth," he says as they stand outside. "I didn't know pretty girls in heels said 'fuck' so crudely."

"Fuck," she curses even louder. Her teeth begin to chatter. "Sorry. It's just so f-fucking... _cold_."

Eren smiles. Mikasa isn't one to curse. Like, ever. He feels a tinge of honor at having witnessed the rare occasion, briefly wondering if she ever does it in front of her husband-to-be.

"Do you know how to make your way back?" he asks her.

"Actually"—she glances around her—"I don't."

"Would you like me to help you?"

"Anything," she spits, practically jumping up and down for heat. "A-anything just p-p-please get me out of this d-d-damn c-cold."

"Alright," he says. "Where is it that you're coming from?"

"Sina Plaza."

Eren raises his eyebrows, impressed. "Really?"

"Y-yes."

"You mean, _THE_ Sina Plaza hotel!?"

"Yes, Eren!" She nearly power-walks in circles. "P-please, just help m-m-me out. Tell me where to go and I will t-take a taxi there."

"No way," he says before peeling off his coat and draping it over her shoulders. "It's just around the corner. Come on. I'll take you."

Mikasa's stunned, frozen into place, eyes wide in astonishment as he pulls the coat all snug and tight around her, rubbing his hands over her arms and shoulders to offer her more heat.

She gazes at him, bewildered.

"It's warm, isn't it?" he smiles, his face merely inches away from hers.

Still, Mikasa can't speak, so Eren pulls her by the sleeve of her own coat and prompts for her to start walking.

She follows just behind him, utterly overtaken by the scent of him that radiates off his coat. Ginger. Nutmeg. Old Spice. _Him_.

After a long moment, she finally finds her voice. "Wait," she blurts. "Wait, Eren. I can't take your coat. It's too cold out here! You'll freeze–"

"Please, Mikasa," he groans, rolling his eyes, but she doesn't catch him doing it. "I can stand the cold. You know that."

She opens her mouth to object again, but no words come out of her.

Eren turns his head to look at her over his shoulder.

She's gaping at the back of his pale, cotton sweater, making out the slope of his spine and the muscles on his back from underneath the fabric, biting down on her lip as if she were keeping herself from saying something.

Eren smiles, stopping on his feet to allow her to catch up to him. He stares at her as they walk silently side by side, just like he had done before on their way to the cafe.

Mikasa doesn't look at him.

"Hey," he whispers, tapping her on the arm with the back of his hand. "Your teeth stopped chattering. See? It's working."

Mikasa scoffs, her breath puffing into white smoke before her, but offers nothing more.

"Now," Eren digs his hands into his pockets, "since I can't show you around the city tonight, I'll just point out every important place we see along the way and tell you a little something about them, okay?"

Mikasa stares at him for a quiet second, then nods her head slowly and says, "Okay."

"Right. So..." He rubs his palms together, blowing hotly into his hands to heat them up, steam puffing into them and slipping through some of the cracks between his fingers. He raises a hand and points to a park across the street. "You see that place over there?"

She nods, following the line of his finger.

"That's Rose Park. Mostly rich people ever go there. It's an odd name for a park, I know, but people started calling it that since it has so many damn rose bushes. Nobody really calls it by its real name which, honestly, I can't even remember right now."

She laughs quietly at that.

"And that," he points to a building beside them, decorated from top to bottom with Christmas lights, "is an apartment complex. I dated a girl who lived there once."

Mikasa crinkles her nose.

Eren shakes his head, eyes wide and occult as if the memory of her suddenly came prowling back to haunt him. "God, she was _crazy_."

"I thought you were only going to point out the important places," she deadpans.

Eren smiles brightly at her. "Oh, sorry. You're right."

She nods, hands clutching the thick fabric of his coat so that it doesn't fall off her shoulders.

"This area is mostly for rich folks. You see that restaurant right there? They sell shark livers. Shark. Livers. I didn't even know you could eat that!"

Mikasa laughs again, shrugging her shoulders and shaking her head. "Apparently, you can."

"And the place beside them is an expensive vegan restaurant. I wonder what genius thought it would be smart to set up a vegan joint right next to a place that sells shark intestines but, hey, I guess irony is gold, right?"

Mikasa's lips stretch into a smile that lingers as they walk. His hands fly out of his pockets occasionally for him to point, then slither back down into them like snakes crawling back into the safety of their homes.

"The diner I was gonna take you to is right down this street, but I'm afraid we won't be walking past it." He shrugs. "Oh, well. Another day, right? Oh! Hey, we turn here."

They turn at a street corner, walking down the sidewalk as Eren keeps on talking: About a shop that opened just about a week ago. About a store that had been abandoned and everyone swears is being haunted by ghosts. About this great doughnut place that was founded by the same guy that directed some episodes of _Friends_.

She smiles. No matter what he says—even if she doesn't really hear him—Mikasa can't help but smile at his words. At his presence. At his being. At just...

Him.

There it is. That ardent, fervid spirit of his she's gone so long without. The Eren she always remembered—the one she knew so well, he was like a roman candle. He just burned and burned and _burned_, never extinguishing his flame.

Suddenly, he's that burst of wildfire again, and Mikasa realizes that she feels... Suddenly... Inexplicably...

_Happy?_

She feels so... _happy_ to be by his side, again, where she naturally belongs. She can feel her chest swell up like a balloon inside her, threatening to burst from joy at any second. His nose turns pink and his lips look a little blue, but Eren keeps on talking, not even considering asking for his coat back.

She nearly closes her eyes then, wallowing in the sound of his voice. The low timbre of his tone—the gentle gruffness of it—and all the little gasps he emits after rambling on a little too long and ending up breathless.

That voice.

Hearing it was like hearing the world again for the very first time. She could listen to him talk forever. She could listen to him babble on and on and on without rest, and still feel as radiant and complete as a flower in full bloom.

She feels something shake within her, as if her soul had begun to twitch, fighting to break free of her body and just dance. She laughs at something he says, realizing that's the most she's laughed in ages. She feels like the missing piece of a grand puzzle has been discovered, and a foreign heat suddenly takes over her. A cozy, warm, fuzzy heat. She feels safe. She feels content.

_She feels it all._

She realizes then, just how much she's yearned for him... in the same way wasted lungs will yearn for air. Because Eren—as much as she's tried to convince herself in the last few years that he isn't—is her breath.

Being with him enlightens something essential within her, something ancient, something old. Something that belongs to her primal being, from the very moment she was born.

Eren looks at her and smiles, laughing briefly at his own joke like the dork that he is. It's as if someone, or something, flips a switch and turns on a light inside her every time she hears him laugh. Dark, empty spaces flicker and glow, a bright light flooding over the black planes that have gone unnoticed and untouched for so long inside her. How long has she gone without seeing that smile? How long has she gone without hearing that voice?

And what had happened, exactly, that made it all suddenly go away?

Something pricks within her chest then, like a scathing little blow inside her heart. It's bittersweet, reminiscent, and Mikasa nearly crumbles into tears. This feeling... she cannot explain. And perhaps she doesn't even want to.

_If only_... If only she could always be by his side...

But Eren comes to a sudden stop, and Mikasa recognizes the place where they are standing.

"We're here," he says, his voice sounding a bit defeated.

Mikasa exhales deeply, her chest deflating along with her breath. She can't fight the hint of disappointment in her tone. "Already?"

"Yeah," he smiles weakly, burying his hands deep within his pockets and shrugging his shoulders up a bit. "I'm afraid so."

Mikasa sighs, slowly shedding his coat from her shoulders before extending out her arm to him, offering it back.

Eren thinks he can sense a mild reluctance in her motions, but it's probably just his imagination.

"Thank you, Eren," she says quietly. "For the coat. For tonight. For that delicious chocolate pie thingy."

He laughs, taking the coat from her hand. "No problem. I honestly didn't think you were allowed to eat chocolate anymore. What with your mandatory diets and stuff."

She flashes him a smile, watching as he pushes his arms through the coat one thick sleeve at a time. "Actually, I'm not. But nobody has to know that."

"I won't tell," he whispers. "Promise."

Mikasa gives him a little grin before she laughs, sighing heavily afterwards as if to say, _yep. This is it, __then__. __Time for me to go._

But they stand quietly for a moment after that, lingering, not really knowing what to do. The silence is beginning to grow a bit awkward after a while, but neither of them are willing to interrupt it yet. Not yet.

Eren glances back at the hotel behind him, his brows raising slightly at the sight. He'd walked past the place about a million times before, but he'd never gone inside. Only super rich people ever really went there.

Which only made him wonder: What the hell was _Mikasa_ doing in a place like that?

He glances down at the ring in her finger, then at the scarf around her neck. Suddenly, he feels light-headed and weak. Panic rattles quietly inside him, threatening to form into a calamitous storm.

Because he understands. Eren understands what's happening perfectly:

He has to let Mikasa go. He has to let her go **again**.

"Well," one of them speaks, and he realizes it's Mikasa. "I guess this is it," she comments faintly, averting her eyes to the ground.

Eren takes a deep breath, trying to calm his sudden anxiety. "Yeah."

Mikasa opens her mouth to speak, but says nothing. She can't bring herself to pronounce the words.

So she reaches out her hand to him instead, nodding her head to prompt him into taking it. Eren glances down at her fingers, eyeing the perfectly manicured nails, blinking at them for a moment before taking her hand in his own.

_Second time she touches me: When she leaves me. _

_Again._

Mikasa stares down at their hands, watching as they swayed up and down unison. She pretended that she hadn't noticed the large scar on his palm, which reminds her that the permanent scratch below her right eye was currently invisible, covered expertly by makeup.

She pretends not to feel the heat of his palm melt the surface of her icy skin.

She pretends not to feel his fingers wrapped around her hand, denting the skin, gripping gently, yet firmly at the same time.

She pretends not to notice any of these things. She pretends that none of them matter to her as much as they actually do.

"Take care, Mikasa," he tells her gently, and she smiles weakly at him in response.

Time seems to stop. Something shakes inside of her. Something unpleasant. And it's not the cold.

"You too, Eren," she tells him. "You too."

Out of nowhere, Eren gives her hand a tight squeeze, and the pressure causes a surge of electricity to jolt up her spine, her knees nearly buckling beneath her.

She closes her eyes, pretending not to feel it. Pretending not to be overwhelmed with the sudden realization that _this is it_. They will no longer see each other after this.

When she opens her eyes again, his hand still gripping hers, Mikasa understands the lingering silence between them. He's feeling her hand. Feeling_ her_. Remembering. Memorizing. Savoring.

How utterly odd and inconvenient is that? Eren can always manage to make even the most trivial and inept things intimate between them. Like a glance. Or a smile.

Or a handshake.

She feels vulnerable. Bare and naked, like a clam ripped open to expose its pearl.

Finally, she tears her hand away from his, remembering her fiancé, which she knows she loves so much and must be worried sick for her—if not furious as well.

Without uttering another word, Mikasa makes her way past Eren, walking to the tall, fancy doors of the hotel and causing him to freeze when he catches that foreign scent on her again.

He stands in place as he wires his brain into a trained, careful numbness, deciding he can wallow in the pain and aftermath of seeing her once he's in the safety of his own home.

Eren turns slowly on his feet. He brings himself to walk down the sidewalk—one foot reluctantly following the other—ripping himself away from her like an infant snapping free of its umbilical cord.

* * *

><p>Mikasa's hand is already clasping the door handle, about to pull.<p>

But she stops.

Her hand trembles, even as she grips the handle tight. Her whole body's trembling, actually—and she isn't cold. Not anymore. Eren's heat still shrouds her completely—even though he isn't with her anymore. Even though he's gone. Even though his coat no longer lades her shoulders.

She stares at her hand. At the engagement ring on her finger.

Something bolts to life inside of her. A question. An answer.

Is this it?

She closes her eyes.

No.

_**No, it's not**_.

* * *

><p>"Wait!"<p>

She's shouting out to him before she can even stop herself, calling for Eren as soon as she breaks away from the door.

This is wrong. She shouldn't do this. She should just go home. To her fiancé. To her friends.

_To her own damn engagement party._

But Eren doesn't hear her, he continues on to walk.

"Hey, wait!" she hollers, running up behind him, nearly tripping on her own feet. _Damn these fucking heels to hell_.

"**_Eren!_**"

Suddenly, Eren stops, his shoulders raising in alarm before he whips around to see her, green eyes stretched wide in surprise.

"I..." Mikasa stands before him, panting slightly as she tries to catch her breath. "Um... Sorry, I just... Uh, I was meaning to ask you"—her heart is beating so hard she practically feels it pounding out of her chest when she says—"**so** **h****ow could I ever reach you again?**"

Eren blinks. His eyebrows raise in mild astonishment before knitting together into a thoughtful frown. He opens his mouth, unsure of what to say, unsure whether he even heard her right, yet he still manages to sputter, "W-well, I don't have a phone right now. But if you want, I could give you my address?"

"Alright," she breathes before she can control herself, searching frantically for a pen inside her purse. Her hands are shaking as she rummages through, and she hopes Eren doesn't notice. "Do you have anything to write on?"

He stares at her, frowning, as if he doesn't understand a word she's saying at all. Then suddenly, "Oh! Yeah."

Promptly, he reaches into his pocket for his wallet, taking out a slightly crumpled piece of paper from inside one of the little folds. Honestly, what's that piece of paper even doing in there? How had it gotten into his wallet in the first place? Why had he kept it there for so long?

It's a good thing he did though, and he silently thanks past Eren for being so smart.

Mikasa gives him her pen, and he positions it over the paper, using his folded wallet behind it for support.

She watches him silently, hearing her own pulse drumming inside her ears, her body surging with adrenaline as he scribbles his address down on the paper. Mikasa starts to shiver again, but not necessarily from the cold.

"There," he says, giving her the paper with his address on it.

She takes it from his hand. Smiles. It doesn't even occur to her to give him her number because now she's suddenly afraid. She offers a small nod, turning around swiftly and throwing over her shoulder a breathless, "Goodbye, Eren. I'll see you soon!"

He stands frozen in place, bemused and slightly bewildered. He still holds her pen in his hand, and part of him wants to call out after her to return it. But his body is unresponsive under the shock and disbelief of what just occurred, and Mikasa is already bolting her way through the grand doors of the hotel like they weighed absolutely nothing.

"Yeah," he says under his breath, clutching the pen in his hand. He knows she can't hear him, but he still agrees with her aloud, breathing out a soft and hope-ridden "**Soon.**"

* * *

><p>Mikasa hardly remembers walking through the front doors.<p>

She can't recall pressing down on the shiny golden button to call for the elevator. Or making her way inside, standing as straight and poised as always, punching on her floor number without as much as a sliver of emotion present in her face.

But then the elevator doors close shut.

And she gasps, realizing she hadn't been breathing.

_Oh, my God._

Her legs turn to jelly, and she melts with her back against the wall, panting heavily as if she'd just ran a marathon.

She leans her head back against the glassed interior, knowing that she's messed up her updo in the process, but she doesn't really care.

Because Eren. _**Eren**_. _She'd just seen Eren!_

_Oh. My.__** God!**_

She laughs. It's short, nervous and shaky, but she laughs. Her chest and legs tremble profusely. Her heart flutters like a little bird inside a cage.

"Eren..." she whispers aloud, not even aware of herself.

The elevator dings with every new floor, its gradual ascend to her destination enclosing her into the tight, suffocating spaces of reality. But her heart and mind are floating out of her body in blissful reverie. Mikasa is utterly beside herself.

She looks down at her trembling fists.

_His fingers_. Those fingers. She can still feel them wrapping around her, holding on to her hand.

Holding _her_.

He's not a dream. Dreams can't hold your hand. Dreams don't give you a piece of paper with their address on it.

Oh! That reminds her.

She pants, bringing the piece of paper to her face and boring her eyes through the scribbled words.

A smile. It dawns upon her lips.

The ink is black, staining over the paper. She can see the stain the pen made when he'd hovered the tip over it, a little hesitant and unsure.

A dot of obsidian.

_Black._

But then, his handwriting follows, and she marvels at every dip and curve of the words, admiring even the hasty manner in which some jumble up together before they end, and she's reading the entire thing all over again.

_Ding_. Another floor.

Mikasa folds the paper gently, carefully, as if she's afraid it might rip. She tucks it safely inside her bra, where nobody will find it. The paper feels sharp and prickly against her skin, but she smiles faintly, not daring to remove it.

She feels vibrant and live.

**Whole**.

Her eyes close and remember him. His eyes. His face...

His dimple-revealing smile.

But then the elevator gives one last ding, and the doors slide apart to open right in front of her.

Mikasa slowly opens her eyes, landing back into reality. _Suffocating._

In an instant, she's toneless once again, all brightness and color draining out of her as she makes her way out, walking through the crowd of foreign people to stash away her coat and purse.

The party lights are bright and luminescent, but her eyes catch none of it anymore.

Because—even though there's music and people and colors all around her—someone has turned off that light.

* * *

><p>Eren treks down the street, eyes glued onto the ground.<p>

He looks down at his hand. He's still holding her pen. It's just a pen. Nothing special.

But it's_ hers_.

He sighs, remembering her hand in his. It had felt so strange, so delicate. Fragile. Not like her at all.

Mikasa's changed, he thinks. Mikasa's changed so much.

But there is a tremendous joy that swells up inside of him, one so brilliant and abstruse that not even he can understand.

Then, suddenly, he catches his reflection in a window while walking past a building. Damn. He almost doesn't even recognize himself. Eren is a stranger. _Still_ a stranger.

It suddenly dawns upon him: _How did Mikasa even recognize me? _His brain replays the events of the night over and over again. How she'd ran into him and nearly collapsed, how she'd felt so light in his arms, how she'd gazed up at him in alarm but then quickly recognized his face, bringing her mouth to pronounce his name. She'd recognized him even before he'd recognized _her_.

How? _How?_

And then... The way she'd said it—_"Eren"_—over and over again, without realizing the damage that it caused him.

Because that was it, you see. That was the last thing she'd ever said to him before disappearing. His own name would haunt him for years for that same reason, because it carries the presence of** her**.

Then, it hits him: That's the last thing... but also the first. When she'd seen him again that night, his name was the first thing to pour out of her lips, to spill out through her smile.

He scoffs, laughing stupidly to himself and running a hand through his messy hair.

He can still see her eyes, wide and round, startled as he drapes his coat around her. He can still smell her scent, even if it wasn't hers entirely. He can still hear her talking and remember... how he'd felt so fucking _alive _then. For the first time in a very long time, something has breathed life into him.

His eyes flicker down onto his hand, staring at the pen absently for a moment. Then, suddenly, a single white flake lands atop his outstretched palm, just above the ugly scar that mars it.

He looks up. Eren can hardly believe the very sight before him.

It's snowing.

He scoffs, shaking his head, then stops just by the edge of a sidewalk, waiting for permission to cross the street.

There aren't many cars out in the night, but the sign at the end of the crossroad flashes a red hand for 'stop'.

He looks up at the traffic light, and even though there are no cars waiting by, he stands in place and waits as it flashes...

_Green._

He doesn't move. He doesn't want to. Mikasa's laughter still rings inside his ears. Her hand still fills his palm. Her red dress still glows, purely, right before his eyes.

**The girl. **He sees her. He sees her even though she's no longer there.

Eren hears the Christmas music all around him, and it's soft. Beautiful. Something cracks open within him, something bursts to life anew. He appreciates the world around him as if he were experiencing it for the very first time, the almost-six-years he's spent becoming familiar with the city suddenly disintegrate into nothing, and he's re-discovering the world through the lenses of new eyes.

He tucks her pen into his pocket, watching as little flakes of snow float down from the sky. The wind is gentle, and it carries a whisper...

Her voice, eliciting his name.

It only takes a few more minutes, but he doesn't mind the pointless wait. Because, eventually, the red hand disappears and the pedestrian sign lights up in its place to indicate...

_Go._

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Finally,_ the story has begun! _There is so much to unravel, and I'm pretty damn excited 'cause we're just getting started. Sorry this chapter is so long, once again. Also, I'm thinking of changing the title. Maybe I will. Maybe I won't. I dunno, just "Not Over Yet" doesn't really feel right right now? Please pm/tumblr me and let me know if you got any suggestions.

As always, thank you for reading. Please make sure to leave a review and let me know what you think. It truly means a lot :)

**PS: **Eren wasn't flirting with the barista girl. He was telling her he was trying to steal a girl away from her fiancé. But Mikasa doesn't have to know that (mwaha).


	3. Hello, Stranger

**A/N: **Lots of profane language here. Lots.

* * *

><p><strong>.: Not Over Yet :.<strong>

.: _Hello, Stranger_ :.

.: Chapter III :.

* * *

><p>Everything feels like such a daze, lately. A hazy, lifeless blur.<p>

Mikasa can't seem to understand why.

Her eyes hardly twitch for the few hours she lays cooped up in a little ball of linen sheets on her side of the bed, immersed in a profound state of slumber. They remain closed as she dreams of nothing, just pure, utter darkness; an empty canvas of black her only consolation in the loneliness of the night—a loneliness she's gotten rather used to. They don't notice when her fiancé rises from the bed and leaves his spot beside her. They don't see him hunched over the sink, splashing water onto his face before brushing his teeth. They don't see his nervous glances shot to her sleeping form whilst he answers a few texts on his cell phone. They don't see him slip on some trousers, or button up his shirt. They don't see anything. They don't even dream. They stay shut, useless, even long after consciousness returns and she feels herself awoken.

Jean's lips press a tender kiss to the corner of her jaw, their presence lingering for a blissful second before he pulls away, and then, just like that, they're gone. The moist stamp they leave glimmering on her skin serves as her only consolation in their absence.

That is what awakens her that morning. That, and the sound of his brisk, heeled footsteps over the hardwood floor of their apartment as he breezes through, the front door being slammed shut a bit too loudly, and then the faint string of curses muttered under his breath outside. In his sudden haste, Jean must've forgotten she was sleeping.

Eventually, Mikasa's eyes flutter open, a long sigh deflating from her chest. She almost hates herself for expecting this morning to be any different from the rest.

Slowly, she turns her body over so that she's facing the window, white sheets rustling and bed creaking underneath her as she turns, almost expectantly, but not quite so. The space where Jean's body rested only a few moments ago lies vacant, the sheets still warm from where he'd slept. Mikasa's hand lingers on the unoccupied space for a while, wallowing in his absence, her eyes gazing sleepily across the room to stare out at the city through a gap between the cream-colored curtains.

White. The world is white outside. Snow flakes rain down almost subtly from the sky, like tiny balls of foam spilling down from the heavens.

She closes her eyes, breathing out another long sigh through her nostrils.

She _really_ hates herself for expecting this morning to be any different than the rest. Bitter disappointment bubbles up inside her like freshly popped soda, fizz about to overflow.

Because, naturally, Jean has to go to work.

On a Sunday.

_Baby, you know I have to __go__ no matter what__,_ he always tells her when she protests. _But we'll go out and eat something when I get back, okay? How does that sound?_

Fucking marvelous. It's not like she ever had it in her to protest any further after that.

She stares at the falling snow for quite some time, until her vision starts to blur and go unfocused. Bright, morning light pours radiantly into the room, shining through the pale curtains and reigning over every inch of their spacious master bedroom with the sovereignty of a new day. Her eyes, still heavy from sleep, trail up idly to gape at the boring spectacle that is their ceiling.

Sundays. Mikasa quite loathes Sundays, really. There's nothing ever to do. The entire apartment feels so empty without her fiancé. The very stillness of it taunts her, suggesting loneliness, fatigue—and its hardly half past seven in the morning.

At least, she_ thinks_ she sees **7:****2****2****a.m.** flash on the digital time clock by the bed, but she's not too sure. It's not like it really matters, anyway. It's not like it really makes any difference at all.

Suddenly, a chirpy little voice echoes inside her brain, bouncing off the walls in her head like an irritating bouncy ball. _"Je__eeeeaaaa__an-bo," _it croons. She realizes—with an involuntary cringe—that the voice is actually her mother-in-law's. It disrupts even the faintest slither of the silence around her with its shrilling, nails-dragging-down-a-chalkboard whine: _"Je__eeaaa__an-__bo__, your fiancé__e__—__she's so beautiful! It's such a shame she doesn't talk or smile __more__, __though. __Pretty girls like her should smile __more__ often!"_

Mikasa frowns at the memory. Those were her exact words, too.

"_Mom_," her fiancé had protested, giving his mother a gentle tug to guide her line of walking (or trudging, more like), "_p__lease. She does smile. __Like, a__ll the time."_

"_Well, I don't __ever __see __her doing it!__You should help her break out of __her __shell, __Jean__. Help her break out of it!"_

"_'Kay, Mom__. __Whatever you say.__"_

"_I'm serious__!__ She needs to talk more. Or at least smile __a little! __Her disposition is always so __darn__ frustrating to me! I can hardly ever figure her out, Jean.__Nobody likes a girl so serious.__"_

Ugh.

Overhearing Jean's mother spit blatant criticisms about her was such a regular, almost-daily occasion that Mikasa wondered why she ever felt even the least bit affected by them. But she did. She _always_ did, somehow.

She'd overheard the conversation just two weeks ago, while she waited patiently outside the Sina Plaza Hotel on the night of her engagement party for Jean to finish stuffing his mom into a taxi cab, his gentle pushes and benign shoves soon resorting to defeated sighs of exasperation as his clearly-had-a-little-too-much-to-drink-mother rebuffed his attempts to get her inside.

Her words were only alcohol induced, so she didn't really mean them—at least, that's what Jean had tried convincing Mikasa later on that night, when she had very casually (not very casually) alluded (more like proclaimed) to the fact that his mother had been squawking not-so-pleasant comments about her all night long without the slightest hint of modesty or even _decency_ at that.

"_She was drunk, Babe. Just ignore her. I'm sure she didn't mean a word of it at all."_

Of course she didn't. She probably didn't mean the plethora of comments she'd spat under her breath since the day they'd first met either, calling her this name and that, disgracing her with subtle little side-glances and the occasional blatant roll of her mascara-coated eyes. _Anti-social. Humorless. Odd, quiet little girl_. The best part always came right after, when she would turn around and, unremittingly, flash Mikasa a smile so grand and genuine-looking that she found herself doubting her own eyes. She was a fucking illusionist, that woman. One second, a smile bearing all the sincerity of the world would etch itself onto her face before, in the briefest flicker of a second, it would go _poof!_ and vanish right before your eyes. She always left you wondering if you'd merely just imagined it.

Still, Mikasa wasn't stupid. She knew very well that nobody in his family—or even social group, for that matter—particularly doted on her. Because... well...

_Nobody likes a girl so serious._

Little do they know,Mikasa had thought then, that she'd actually smiled and laughed a whole damn lot that night. Countless of times, actually. Just not with them.

She'd said nothing and pretended not to hear her, feigning ignorance while marveling at the snow that fell quietly around them, carried this way and that in gentle hush of the wind. Mikasa figured that if she just focused her whole attention on the gentle dance of the snowflakes that fell around her feet, her mother-in-law's voice would ebb away to nothing. (Pretending not to hear others' snide remarks about her is becoming something of a new routine now. One she still isn't sure how to handle).

She squints her eyes at the ceiling, gauging how much time has actually passed since then. Has it really been two whole weeks now? Really? Two?

Her mother-in-law's comments still sting her like a violent jab to a fresh bruise. But then again, anything related to Jean's mother is always as enjoyable as poking at your own bruises for hours, as far as Mikasa's concerned.

She sighs, her body sinking into the mattress like a solid block of lead. She rolls herself onto her back, thinking that _time __sure__ does go __by __fast._

Two weeks, huh. That's how long it's been since she last saw Eren, then...

**Eren.**

Instantly, she slaps a hand across her mouth, covering the smile that nearly breaks through her stoic expression like a dangerous secret about to be exposed—as if there's even anyone there to see her. She squeezes her eyes shut, a long squeal muffled by her palm, legs kicking about and body squirming on the bedsheets like a hyperactive child's.

Jesus. She's going nuts.

So much has changed since she last saw him... even though it's only been two weeks. She's started noticing some new things since then, things that would've normally escaped her. Like how Jean's body wash has a smell very similar to the redolent Old Spice that had tinged Eren's coat. She'd even noticed this that _same_ night too! They were in the shower together after making it home and she went to rub the blue, gel-y liquid onto her fiancé's back, nearly slapping herself across the face when what sprang into her mind was an image of the green-eyed, long-haired, gone-a-bit-too-long-without-shaving, tannish boy of her past instead of the man standing naked right before her. _Eugh_.

She's also started noticing the scent of chocolate more now too, as silly as that sounds, ever since her taste buds rediscovered their long-lost addiction after going "clean" for so long. Everywhere she went, if there was chocolate anywhere within a ten-foot radius, she could smell it as if her nose were as sharp as a hound's.

It's all Eren's fault. Ever since she last saw him, her senses have been more alert and acute, her nerve ends constantly on point and eyes occasionally discovering new things they'd hardly cared enough to notice countless times before. She's not only started noticing the things _around_ her though, she's also gone to discover new things about _herself_.

Like how she's actually a pretty bad fucking liar.

"_What took you so long? I was starting to get worried,"_ Jean had said, or rather, slurred to her that night when she'd made it back to him, a whiff of alcohol tingeing his breath. Whiskey, vodka, rum—Mikasa hardly knew the difference. It's not like she's allowed to drink, anyway.

"_A friend,"_ she'd gushed out without even thinking. _"I ran into someone."_

And by the "_Oh?_" that her fiancé had given her and the clumsy way in which his eyebrows raised, she knew that he wanted further explanation.

"_A friend of yours,"_ she'd lied, and never had a few set of words ever made her feel so tainted and dirty as this: _"We talked about the wedding. They were __so__ kind! I can't remember their name, though. __You know how I am with names.__"_

That's the first time she ever lied to him.

The second came right after that, when he'd opened his mouth to ask 'Which friend?' and Mikasa had lunged forward and stolen a kiss from him so quickly, and in such a spontaneous (and rare) public display of affection, that she had him smiling groggily against her lips for some time. He must've forgotten what they were talking about after that, because he didn't bother questioning her further.

But then, he'd sighed happily, catching her face in his hands, a shadow of confusion crossing his features as he said,_"Chocolate. Why do you taste like chocolate?"_

And that's when Mikasa had sputtered out her second lie: _"Chapstick."_

If she thought about it long enough, she kinda felt bad about lying to him. But it's not like she could've just said the truth, right? It wasn't that simple. She couldn't just confess that she'd escaped their own damned party and left him behind so she could roam about the city, running into an ex-lover in the process and spending time with him at a french cafe where she broke a sacred rule and actually _fed herself __fucking __chocolate—_oh, God. No.**No**_._ Just the idea of it was fucking horrific. Jean wouldn't have been too pleased to hear about that. So, naturally, lying was her best and only option.

_Yeah, yeah, yeah,_ a different voice chirps inside her mind, and she realizes it's actually her own this time. _You haven't even married the __poor __guy__yet __and already you are lying to him._

"Oh, shut up," she says aloud, rolling over to the middle of their gigantic, king-sized bed.

Great. Now she's talking to herself.

She hears a faint _meow_ coming from the kitchen. It's their cat—well, Jean's cat; but she's got her own name for him: Jiji. Not only did she name him that because his fur is black as charcoal and his face is usually settled in a rather bored and caustic expression that reminds her of Kiki's pet Jiji in the movie _Kiki's Delivery Service, _but also because she thinks that 'Mr. Pringles' is a pretty stupid name to give a cat. Just..._ no_. You do **not** name a cat Mr. Pringles, no matter how many tubes of Pringles need to be unscrewed from around his head. One of these days, Jiji's gonna get his head stuck in one of those darned tubes and when they're forced to take him to the vet, the doctors are going to ask them what their cat's name is. If so much as a single breath in inhaled and the name 'Mr. Springles' starts to form in Jean's lips, Mikasa's going to karate chop him on the side of the neck and knock him down unconscious.

He's a pretty dumb cat, that Jiji. But Mikasa likes him. He's always there to keep her company, even if he hardly ever glances her way. She can't be bothered to move just yet though, so she just pores over the ceiling, thinking,_ Two more meows. Two more meows and then I'll feed him._

How long has she gone without moving? She's not so sure. Her arms and legs spread apart to her sides. She's splayed open on the center of the bed like a child about to make a snow angel. A few more drowsy blinks later, and the vestiges of slumber finally desert her. She's wide awake now, staring at the ceiling with renewed intent.

Maybe, just maybe, if she stays very, _very_ still, motivation will come to her.

But then Jiji meows again. Mikasa sighs, ignoring him. _One more. One more meow and then I'll move._

You know, now that she thinks about it, going back to some of the things she's noticed since seeing Eren, it turns out, oddly enough, that her bra wasn't actually a smart place to hide his address. No. No, not really. What a splendid thing to notice right before your horny fiancé decides he wants to take you to bed, right?

You see, she'd thought it a pretty clever hiding spot back _then_, when she'd had her mild meltdown in the elevator. But then came saying goodbye to all the guests, and cleaning up after the party, and stuffing Jean's drunken mother into a taxi cab. Inevitably, sooner or later, would come the time to go back home. What she hadn't thought of was that maybe her fiancé—whom she'd been with for some time now and knew so damnably, perfectly well—might want to... Oh, you know...

Have sex.

Yeah. '_**Fuck**_' pretty much sums up Mikasa's thoughts back then. In her vague and somewhat limited experience, she's come to understand that there are five types of drunks in this world: the happy drunks, the sad drunks, the angry drunks, the philosophical drunks, and the horny drunks.

Her fiancé is the horny kind of drunk.

That night, she hadn't expected even it. She'd assumed that Jean would feel too tired, what with his drunken, blabbering state and all. Maybe he might've just wanted to go home and rest… Sleep off a potential hangover? But no. Oh, no. He had other plans in mind, apparently.

His hands had startled her, gripping her waist so tightly and out of the blue that she only had a second to catch her breath before, looking back at his reflection on the mirror in front of her, she told him that he'd scared her. He responded by whispering apologies into her hair and swaying slightly on his feet behind her. From the mirror, she could see that his eyes were closed right above her head, the rest of his face practically buried into her hair as he inhaled her scent. Despite herself, she smiled. _S__illy dork._

She'd continued to relieve her ears of the bulk that are a pair of diamond earrings, carefully removing all her jewelry before placing it neatly inside the humble, little jewelry box Armin made for her once as a Christmas present many years ago, when she'd heard his sleepy, imperceptible voice murmuring behind her head._"'Kasa,"_ he'd slurred into the back of her neck, his breath hot and moist against her skin.

She'd laughed, asked him what he wanted.

Then, he'd gone on to tell her how beautiful she looked, how lucky he felt to have her, how happy he was that in a few short months she would finally be his blah blah blah and so forth—all the while his hands roved over her dress, working up and down her sides, bunching up the skirt in his hands like he'd wanted it to vanish. He'd pressed a kiss to the exposed skin on the back of her neck, then to the first, small bump of bone peeking out from her spine above the neck line. She'd shuddered, laughed a little too. He kept murmuring nonsense she couldn't understand into her skin, which tickled.

Then she'd turned around to face him, giggling, ready to retaliate, when suddenly he'd plunged forth and caught her mouth with his without warning.

It's pretty obvious what went on after that, so just use your imagination.

Eventually, though, his hands grew bored of framing her ass and waist, running out of feasible ways to get the dress off of her. His clouded, drunken mind cleared with the light of an idea, apparently, and soon his clumsy fingers were fumbling behind her back, searching for a zipper. A triumphant little sound rumbled in his throat when he'd found it, and then she felt him tugging at it a few times before gently gliding it down to unzip her.

Hands to his chest, Mikasa had pressed her body up against his, imploring him to go further, briefly wondering how long they'd gone without burning quite as hot as this. She couldn't remember the last time they'd done _it,_ if she was really honest. The cool air of their room had started nipping at the newly exposed skin of her back, Jean's one hand struggling to unhook her bra clasp, the other roaming over her chest in a quest to anchor itself over one of her breasts when suddenly—

Her eyes shot wide open.

She remembered.

Alarms wailed off in her head:

_**Eren's address is on my frickin' boob!**_

"_Jean," _she'd breathed, pushing him away. His eyes, wide, sloshed around in their sockets. Fuck, he was really drunk. He'd searched her features warily, trying to gauge her reaction and make some sense of her, but before he could open his mouth to say anything, she'd murmured, _"Shower. Go start the shower."_

And like a fucking trained puppy, Jean obeyed her command.

That entire night, since the moment Mikasa had been fortunate enough to run into Eren, had turned itself violently askew, snapping off the hinges and hanging practically upside down. Ever since then—ever since _him_, nothing's been quite the same. There's a stain, a mark, a subtle tinge of him lingering around somewhere, demanding to be seen. To be _felt_.

Even though she hasn't seen him in two whole weeks. By her choice, might we add.

Her eyes fall onto the clock by the bed. It's 7:45 am now. Slowly, she trails her gaze over to the dresser where the crumpled piece of paper bearing Eren's address still resides, hidden safely under a bunch of useless notebooks she uses to fill the top drawer she doesn't own enough clothing to fill herself.

It lies untouched. _Still_ untouched.

_What if__—_

Jiji gives his third meow before even a fragment of a thought can fully develop.

Mikasa finally capitulates with a tired groan/sigh.

"Hold up, Jiji," she moans, working her limbs free of the demonic linen-sheets-mess she's worked herself into. She hauls her body over to sit on the edge of the bed, letting out the most disgruntled, garbled sound of pleasure as she stretches her arms above her head and all sorts of bones click and pop up and down her back. Ah, yes. That feels good.

Jiji gives another meow. Louder, more demanding.

Mikasa wants to punch him.

"Jesus," she breathes, clomping over to the kitchen. Tragically enough, half her underwear seems to have wedged itself between her butt cheeks, baring half of a cheek and giving her the most unpleasant of wedgies—which she pulls, like the refined lady that she is, with an exasperated sigh; the elastic band snapping back against her skin with a sharp, slapping sound. The noise must've startled little Jiji, for he spurs and dashes across the kitchen in alarm. He's a very nervous cat, which Mikasa always finds a bit amusing.

He springs across the kitchen floor to where she's walking: smoothing down her half-rolled-up tank top, rubbing her eyes with her fists, yawning as if she hasn't slept in thirty years (and probably looking like it too). She almost trips over the poor creature when he slithers in between her feet, gliding his soft fur over her skin almost sensually. "Jiji, please" she hisses. "Stop it."

The cat just fucking purrs.

She plucks out a can of cat food from inside one of the kitchen cabinets, pulling back the tab to peel the thin metal lid open before scraping out the smelly gunk onto a small plate with a spoon. Jiji's slithering between her feet again, purring in utter delight. Little asshole.

"Here," she says, setting down the plate on the floor before him. Immediately, Jiji starts nibbling off his food, which actually surprises her. That's a first. He must've been famished. Did Jean forget to feed him last night?

She crouches down, crossing her arms over her knees, deciding that she'll watch him. Truly, it's not like she has anything better to do.

After a long while of staring mindlessly at Jiji, Mikasa spaces out, her gaze trailing over to the view past the sliding glass doors leading to the spacious balcony. The snow still falls down prettily from the sky, which she admires quietly, silently wondering: _D__oes Eren have a place like this? What__'__s the view like from where he's living? Does the city seem to him the __same __way it seems to me?_

Suddenly, her phone rings. On cue, she's scrambling to her feet and sprinting across the apartment to the bedroom with such vehement speed that Jiji bolts away from his food in fright.

She hurls herself onto the bed, clambering for her cell phone and snatching it into her hands. Without even bothering to check the caller ID, she answers, slightly out of breath. "Hello? He... _Hello?_"

Nobody responds.

She pants, bringing the phone to her face to peer down at it. The message on the screen reads:

**M****issed Call: **

**Hubby**

She's rushing to to call him back, her heart practically beating right out of her fucking chest as she's nearly doing it—but then, suddenly, a text message chimes in.

It's from him.

**Hi baby. Sorry if I woke you up. Look I'm gonna be back late tonight so don't bother waiting for me. There's leftovers in the fridge from yesterday. Order take out if you want. I left the credit card on the kitchen counter jic so knock urself out. Call u when my meeting's over k?**

She narrows her eyes, a frown digging creases into the skin between her eyebrows. She's just about to re-read the entire message when her phone does that weird _bloop_ noise it always makes when a new text bubble pops into the screen. She runs her eyes over the message.

**See u tonight**

A third text bloops in right after that.

**Love you**

Mikasa really hates Sundays.

* * *

><p>Two hours later, and she's meticulously unfolding and re-folding her clothes.<p>

She's already scrubbed every inch of the bathroom tiles, washed the kitchen counters, rearranged the contents of the fridge and vacuumed just about every damn fiber off the carpets and _still _she cannot seem to calm the gushing torrent of her turbulent, calamitous thoughts. They rage inside her brain like a fucking thunder storm, her cool and calm exposure an utter contradiction to the fire that burns inside.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid, **stupid**, _she calls herself, each new 'stupid' a bit stronger than the last. _Why do you always expect more than what you can have? Why do you always set yourself up for disappointment?_

_Why? Why, why, whywhywhywhy?_

Jiji's lounging on the bed atop her pillow, staring at her with condescending, beady eyes. He meows.

"Not now, Jiji," she grumbles, wiping off the sweat beading on her forehead with a quick sweep of her hand.

_I can't fucking believe him_, seethes a little thought inside her mind. And really, truly, she can't.

After he'd promised to do something tonight—_anything_. It doesn't even have to be anything extravagant, just _sitting_ together in the same room staring at each other would've been fine, for crying out loud! But just... nothing! He's done this to her so many times before, she doesn't even know how she's remotely hurt by it.

But it's just frustrating. It's just really fucking frustrating. Why does he always have to be at work?

Mikasa shakes her head. She's probably just making far too big a deal out of this. Jean would even say so too. She needs to calm down. _Just calm down, Mikasa. __B__reathe._

She retrieves a small tower of folded clothes to stash it back inside the drawers when, her mind still jumbled up in chaos, she ends up opening the wrong drawer instead. She finds herself stalling, and where the fuck has her mind been that she's actually genuinely surprised by the contents held inside? She peers down at them with bemused, hollow eyes.

It's all just a bunch of old notebooks. Most of them not even hers, but actually Armin's.

And hidden underneath one of them, is Eren's little note.

Her hand, still clenched around the small knob to pull the drawer open, tightens. She feels a tingle slither down her spine—something like adrenaline.

Quickly, Mikasa's eyes flicker upwards to meet her own reflection in the mirror. Her face, still fresh and untouched by makeup, bears the purest resemblance of her. It nearly appalls her how much she reminds herself of her own mother. Save for, well, the scar below her eye, she's a painful spitting image of her.

She closes her eyes. No. Don't think about her. Don't think about anything at all.

After a few deep breaths, Mikasa opens her eyes again, gazing at her own reflection with renewed intent and...

_Damn._

She hardly recognizes herself.

This girl, still in just panties and a tank top, with a new chip on her manicured nails and her hair still in utter disarray... Is this really her?

She squints, her brows furrow, a tiny cleft surfacing the skin between them like a pesky weed breaching the soil in a garden. Slowly, she brings a hand to her cheek. The tips of her fingers feel cold against the surface of her clammy, sweaty skin. The once-flawless paint of her manicure—which she's ruined with her recent compulsive burst of cleaning—has chipped off at the edges, the natural pigment of her nails rebelling against the artificial confinement. She swears she can see dark circles ring around her eyes, her skin pale and blotchy, her fingers bony and inexplicably thin. And it's not just her fingers that look like that, the rest of her looks just as alarmingly fragile to her as well. The white tank top she still hasn't changed out of hugs her torso rather loosely, and—Jesus Christ, she looks like a fucking noodle. It's so strange. So _painfully_ unlike her.

Her hipbones poke out from underneath her skin, her collarbones and shoulders so sharp and punctuated that she catches herself gaping at them for a while in disbelief. Her unruly hair falls past her shoulders, ending just below the peaks of her breasts, a length that Jean very much appreciates.

Finally, she meets her own gaze in the mirror.

That is when she's taken aback the most.

Her eyes, as dark and empty as voids, haunt her. She can't fathom why Jean would ever praise their beauty the way he always does. Why? Why does he? She's so... She's just so...

Empty.

Fretting over a man, cleaning up an apartment by all herself for no particular reason, not a single text from friends or loved ones buzzing in her phone—nothing. Nothing whatsoever. Is this really her life?

Suddenly, inexplicable sadness fills the void inside her eyes, poison seeping into vials far too small to contain it. A thought flows forth from her mind, unbidden, bleeding out like sap oozing from a tree, attempting to heal the damaged bark but failing.

It's simple. The truth is very, very simple.

Mikasa feels alone.

_She's lonely._ The cold, hard fact slashes at her heart with the cutting edge of a knife, and there is nothing she can do to shield herself from its scathing blow.

Loneliness, what most people fear the most. And she's so suddenly overcome by its presence; it crashes upon her like a tidal wave, dragging her down into the current. _Drowning her_. It saddens her tremendously.

She feels something split open within her chest, and the feeling is so alarmingly familiar that she sucks in a deep breath, forcing all her intent and energy into just _calming the fuck down_.

Before the tightness can begin to grow, to throttle the passage of her throat, before tears can even start to burn and bead over her eyes, Mikasa takes a deep breath—however shaky it may be—and **stops** herself.

No. She will not cry. Not now, not ever. She knows better than to let her emotions get the best of her. They seldom ever have.

And then, like a dying light bulb, light seems to escape the very contours of her face, all traces of emotion vanishing from her features right before her eyes,. She doesn't even see herself anymore. She doesn't even see her mother. She sees nothing, feels nothing, and it's an emptiness she's grown very accustomed to by now. An emptiness that lingers and stays. Persistent. _Persistent__._ It never goes away.

But there's nothing wrong with that. We've all got our own demons to fight.

Without sparing another glance inside the drawer, Mikasa snaps it shut with all the force of a hurricane, the loud pang of wood banging against the frame resonating through the apartment like a thunder clap splitting through the clouds.

* * *

><p>The entire house is clean now. Like, all of it. There's not a single speck of dust in sight.<p>

Mikasa stands with her hands perched on her hips amid the center of the living room, eyes perusing her surroundings with incandescent pride. "What do you think, Jiji?" she asks, turning around to look at him.

He's nowhere to be found.

She sighs. "You too, huh."

* * *

><p>Everything feels like such a daze, lately. A hazy, lifeless blur.<p>

Mikasa now understands why:

_She needs a fucking social life._

That's it. She can't take it any more.

She's doing it.

After a long, hot shower and some breakfast (a piece of toast is all she can down at the moment), Mikasa decides it's best to get herself out of the apartment. God knows dangerous things happen when she's left alone inside it for too long (i.e. dangerously spotless floors that make your socks slip when you walk over them).

Before leaving, Mikasa makes sure to retrieve three very vital things:

One, her purse (for obvious reasons).

Two, the credit card Jean left on the counter (for revenge).

And—she'll have a hard time explaining this to herself later but—three, Eren's address.

Hey, it can't hurt.

Right?

* * *

><p>The city is covered under a thick blanket of snow. A few hours of relentless snowing will do that to a place, Mikasa supposes, snow that<em> still<em> rains down from the sky, only now in thicker, fuller flakes that linger for a second longer before melting into her clothes.

Mikasa's breath fogs before her as she breathes. Her hands tremble slightly by her sides (whether from nerves or from the cold, she's not so sure). She balls them tightly into fists, taking in a slow, steady breath to calm herself before finally looking up. A tall, dark wood door stands grandly before her, only an arm's-length away. She shudders.

Intimidating.

The number on the door reads **210**, embellished in golden text.

Mikasa glances down at the small tiny note in her hand. Snow flakes fall around the paper, melting into her glove. She briefly wonders if now is really the best time to come pay Eren a visit. Really. Is it? It's snowing. There's not many people out to begin with. It's four days away from Christmas and the snow has hushed the bustling life of the city into a calm, eerie jingle of "jolly" music that sounds more like the forced laughter Jean's mother always emits when she's around her than the genuine melody of holiday spirit—but that may just be Mikasa's ears. It takes a second attempt at reading the address for her brain to process the entirety of the words.

_210 Maria St. apt 210c_

This is it.

She swallows. Her eyes land on the row of buzzers on the thick casing of the door. Three small rectangles bearing each of the inhabitants' last names are written down by hand, one on top of the other. She scans each of the names carefully.

_Dreyse_

_Blouse _(why does that sound so familiar?)

And finally—her breath catches slightly when she sees it—comes the name written in a handwriting identical to the one on the paper she holds in her grasp: _**Jaeger.**_

Mikasa balks. Her hand hangs suspended in the air where she stopped herself mid-way of reaching out to press the small, black button beside his name. Should she even be doing this? Is now even the right time? Her mind is teeming with all sorts of worrisome questions: _What if he's not home? What if he doesn't even want to see me? What if—_

Okay, stop it, Mikasa. Stop. Just press the damn button. What better do you have to do, anyway? Go home? Wallow in your misery while Jean takes forever to get home? Go talk to Jiji? Who is, by the way, your only fucking friend.

No.

_Press the button._

Her hand moves on its own. Mikasa's not even sure what's possessing her, but it's as if someone else is moving her body _for_ her. She bites her lip, the tip of her finger pressing against the smooth surface of the tiny button until—

_Brrraaaaaap!_

Jesus Lord, that thing is loud. Mikasa nearly jumps ten feet into the air from the startle. A few seconds go by in silence after that. She fiddles with a few loose strands of her hair, anticipating the sound of Eren's voice breaking out from the speaker, the latch of the door clicking as he turns the knob to open it, his green eyes growing wide at the sight of her.

But then a whole minute goes by. And nothing happens.

Mikasa smooths a lock of hair behind her ear, licking her slightly chapped lips and shivering from the cold. If Eren doesn't answer soon, she's going to turn into a frigging snowman out here. She bites her lip again, pushing down on the buzzer and holding it for a moment longer, just in case.

_BRRRRAAAAAAAAP!_

Shit damn it fuck. Why not alarm the whole damn city that she's here?

Suddenly, the latch clicks and the door pries open just a sliver. Mikasa straightens, her body perking up and the heels of her boots clicking together in excitement. But then…

Nothing… happens?

She frowns, confused. "Hello?" she calls out, but the door is completely still, hanging slightly ajar. Huh. That's not very inviting. She dips her head to peer in through the sliver of space between the jamb and the door.

There's no one there.

Mikasa swallows. What the heck? Is the buzzer broken? Is there some new, high-tech device that allows people to open doors without being there to answer them themselves that she's not aware of?

She glances around at her surroundings. People stroll about the city without paying her any mind, and snow has begun to accumulate at the tips of her expensive leather boots. She takes a deep breath, and before she can even process what she is doing, her hand is pushing hard against the dark wood of the door. The hinges creak slightly as she pushes it open, peeking her head inside ever-so-carefully and voicing aloud another soft and tentative, "Hello?"

There's not a single soul in sight. As soon as she enters the front door, she is faced with a narrow hallway and a staircase leading up to the second floor. On the one side, a wall stretches far back to a white door with the number **210A** on it. That must be the first apartment. She looks down at the note in her hand. _210c_. Eren is 210C.

Slowly, Mikasa makes her way up the stairs, her heeled footsteps echoing across the white cement walls. She wishes she could hush her own feet, dissolve any sound she makes into the air, for she feels like an intruder.

This doesn't stop her through. Once she climbs the flight of stairs, she is met with a wider, more spacious hallway. Two doors lie adjacent to one another on opposite sides of the walls. A wide, tall window serves as the only sustenance of light between them, save for the flickering light bulb that hangs naked from the ceiling above. She runs her gaze over the wall closest to her on her left. That apartment door is 210B.

Mikasa swallows. This means—this can only mean…

**210C**. Eren's apartment. Right there. Beside her. Just a few steps away.

As she makes her way towards his door, Mikasa momentarily debates if she should even be here. It's not like anyone even answered the door. She sort of just… _went in_. She's not allowed much train of thought though, for her fist is already clenched, her breath held tight inside her lungs, and she raps, twice, on the fading wood of the door to Eren's apartment.

She purses her lips tightly, holding her purse in front of her legs with clenched, trembling fists. It's just the cold, she tells herself. She's not really nervous. Psssh. Not at all.

But then, the most daunting thing occurs. History repeats itself.

Nothing. Happens. Nothing at all!

Mikasa sighs, knocking on the door twice more, only louder this time. _If he doesn't answer, then he's not home. That's okay. That's perfect, really. That way I'll just get to go home. There's no saying I didn't try, at least._

But her heart sinks at the thought. She's almost surprised by herself. Really? Was she really looking forward to seeing him that much?

Enough time standing in silence passes that Mikasa's genuinely convinced there's no one at home. She nods solemnly to herself, almost as if to say _See? I__ told you so_. The tiny flutters of nerves inside her gut die out to nothing, and she is left with the smoldering ashes of flames that once burned fiercely only some short seconds ago. She starts, and is just about to turn on her heels when suddenly—

The door flies open.

Mikasa's heart practically stops.

Right there, in front of her, stands, not Eren Jaeger, but a girl—no, scratch that, a _woman—_with light, shaggy, brown hair that Mikasa imagines must be just about chin-length if it weren't all swept carelessly to the side (like how it is right now) and actually hung down in it's natural state. She's got an austere, amber stare that pierces through Mikasa with daggers of cavalier judgment, an askew smile decorating the smooth curvature of her lips with what suggests uncouth apathy or... is that—_is she mocking me? _

To make matters worse, Mikasa's eyes finally flutter south. She audibly gulps at the woman's presently state.

_She's naked!_ Well, save for a half-buttoned-up over-sized men's shirt and a whole bunch of hickeys around her neck, there seem to be no other additions lading the woman's rosy skin. And the hickeys. Good God, they are everywhere. Mikasa practically feels herself blush at the sight of them.

She parts her lips to speak, but Mrs. I-Just-Got-Laid-Last-Night beats her to it.

"Who are you?" comes her high-pitched, mocking tone, and it's honestly dreadful. Mikasa tries not to choke on her own spit.

"O-oh, I'm... Ah, I just— I'm so sorry. I must have the wrong place? I thought I had it correctly but—"

"What's your name?"

Mikasa blinks, slightly taken aback by her question. "Um..."

"What? You don't know your own name?"

Jesus Christ. Mikasa feels her temple throb with annoyance. She practically grits out between her teeth, "Please excuse me. I must have the wrong address. I'm sorry to have bothered you. Have a nice day."

The woman just shrugs nonchalantly, muttering out a "whatever" as Mikasa tears her eyes away from the lewd hickeys splayed across her skin, turning to walk away when suddenly—

"Hitch."

She stops.

"Who is it?"

Oh. My. God.

It's Eren!

Mikasa freezes stiff. Her stomach churns at the sound of his voice, the smoldering ashes of nerves that had died out only seconds ago burst back to life and into wildfire.

Quickly, she whips around to face the door again and immediately, she is met with a set of wide, startling teal-green eyes.

It's him.

"Oh, my God," he breathes. Mikasa can only imagine her own expression right now. _Yeah. Tell me about it._

She hopes her cheeks aren't flaring bright, cherry red, because her entire face feels like it's suddenly on fire. She opens her mouth to speak, barely sputtering out a squeaky and slightly breathless, "Hi, Eren."

He just blinks at her, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise. The startled expression leaves him soon though, as if he were actually expecting her to show up all along. He actually smiles, the smug bastard.

"How did you...?" he half-queries before his brain apparently falters. His jaw hangs a bit slack and his mouth is agape from where he'd failed to finish voicing his question.

Mikasa just shrugs. She just shrugs. She can't speak. God, she can't even fucking breathe right now.

Eren squints his eyes at her for a millisecond before looking at the half-naked girl beside him, staring at her as if exchanging a few telepathic words.

Mikasa sucks in a deep breath, closing her eyes, pretending not to see the evidence of what could not be any more fucking unpleasant standing right before her (Eren's Nathan Algren hair poking out in all sorts of directions. His taut, tan body as he, too, is practically naked, save for the sweatpants that hang low upon his hips. The scars—and she doesn't remember them being this many—across the skin of his chest and stomach). Her mind spurs and sprints at about a thousand miles per hour. Oh, God. _Oh, God._ Each second grows more desperately uncomfortable than the first.

Eren's surprisingly calm and composed voice snaps the chain of her thoughts though, when he cheerfully comments, "Mikasa. It's so good to see you."

"Oh," she heaves, opening her eyes, practically melting into the shell of her own skeleton from the embarrassment, saying, "I'm sorry. Now's clearly not a good time. I'll just—"

"Nonononono!" Eren interrupts, waving his hands hastily in reassurance and making the girl—_Hitch?_—next to him give him a catty, sideways glance. "It's alright just"—he shoots her a glare, practically burning holes into her bitchy expression with his gaze—"hold on a second."

And with that, the door is being slammed shut right in Mikasa's face.

She hears the hush-hush whispers of both of them behind the door, the woman's ill-tempered tone raising occasionally in anger before lowering an octave to form what sounds like a needy, whiny coo. Then she hears a loud _thump!_ which makes her jump and slightly fear for Eren's life. There's more ruckus, then silence, and Mikasa is left to stare out helplessly at an inconsolable shade of fading white and a slightly chipped **210C **as her mind wanders off into the distance, regret and worry alike clamoring inside her head with the loud, discordant clangs of church bells.

_See? I told you so._

Maybe this wasn't such a good idea.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** I was so tempted to title this chapter 'Hickeys and Ass-Throbbing Wedgies' but then I was like,_ naaahhh_. Coming next chapter, notice the distinct difference between how Eren sees Mikasa, and how Mikasa sees herself. It plays a key role in this story. Also, Mikasa hardly ever curses here but I imagine she's secretly a potty mouth in her head (that may just be a guilty headcanon of mine tho *shrugs*)

Thanks for reading, as always. Hopefully, I'll be seeing you guys again soon. I'm always up for answering any questions/comments you may have so PM/Tumblr me if anything. My tumblr username is **natiwati** (_shh don't judge me_).

Also, don't forget to leave a review _por favor!_ They fill my heart with glee and really help push the story forward!

**PS:** Eren's apartment number is Mikasa's birthday (February 10th)


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